


odds and ends

by olavidalo



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Cross-Post, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Spring Cleaning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 05:15:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 29,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1333360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olavidalo/pseuds/olavidalo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Half-formed stories, sequels, drabbles, snippets, etc.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. untitled overwrought xmas fic

**Author's Note:**

> I. Blanket disclaimer: All of these are lies - untrue, unbeta'ed, unfinished, unbritpicked, (egregious) lies.  
> II. Specific warning for infidelity in this chapter.

 

 

Liam thinks Zayn’s going out for more eggnog.

If he’d been about five minutes faster, he’d be on the road right now. He wouldn’t have run into Harry on the front steps; Harry wouldn’t have sent the cabbie away and shoved him back inside, back into the coat room; they wouldn’t be stood here breathing the same flat air.   
  
But he hadn’t been, so - here they are.  
  
On the other side of the door, just down the hallway and to the left, the sounds of the real world resume: the dialogue to  _Muppets Christmas Carol_  is near overrun by the chattering of various nieces and godchildren, Saf of course holding court over them all by virtue of being the youngest (and coolest) auntie there. Doniya’s singing seems to’ve coaxed Sona out of her strop some; it certainly hasn’t woken Dad up, from the sound of his snoring. Mum and Anne sound to be Planning Something; Liam, Rob and Danny are bickering over West Brom’s chances; and Jordan’s still waxing poetic about the virtues of bacon, Gem telling him to hush every so often. Liyha’s off somewhere on her mobile, and Ant and Talia don’t seem to be making much noise at all, so they’ve probably disappeared into the guest room.  
  
It might be a long while before anyone starts missing him, Zayn thinks, watching, wary, as Harry takes the tiniest of steps closer.   
  
The coat room is already very tiny.  
  
'You're looking rather…overwhelmed,' Harry murmurs, breath wine-warm, sour. The smell of snow is still sharp on him - beneath it, a cologne Zayn can't quite place.  
  
'Might have somethin' to do with you manhandling me.' He tries to keep his voice light and unworried - the plan is to give Harry an escape route that won't leave both of them hugely embarrassed. 'So, ah. did you want my number? I'm free next Wednesday, if you wanted to, like, go for lunch.' Harry blinks at him slowly: he knows, as Zayn does too, that something will come up. There'll be no lunch, no returned phone calls - maybe no more Christmases, either. If Zayn ever gets around to actually telling his parents what really happened between him and the son of two of their oldest friends.   
  
Well. Since they’re pretending anyway: ‘You could bring Taylor. If you like.’  
  
Harry snorts. ‘And you could bring Liam,’ he says, and then he leans forward and kisses Zayn. Tries to, anyway. Zayn forcibly stops him with both hands on his chest.   
  
'Uh, not sure if you noticed? But we don't do that anymore. Fuck's sake, Harry, this is why—' he cuts himself off at the pass: that way's no good. 'Never mind. Just move, I have to go.' Harry blocks his way.  
  
'No, finish what you were saying. This is why, what? What is this?’ He flicks a hand out between them, his elbow neatly knocking over a stack of hats before returning to his side.  
  
'This is nothing -  _we_  are nothing,’ Zayn says. ‘Move.’  
  
Harry’s face goes blank with hurt. Then he smiles, steps out of the way. ‘Don’t let me keep you, then.’   
  
Only Harry, Zayn thinks, would try a guilt trip like that after dragging someone into a coat room and physically barring their exit. And maybe only Harry would be successful.  
  
'Harry,' he sighs, deflating a bit, 'c'mon. don't do that. you know what I meant.' This is exactly why they don't talk anymore. Before it was never so huge a disaster if they didn't end up on the same wavelength - now it's just another reminder of fairly useless memories.  
  
'No, I don't,' Harry says, blinking up quickly. He always looks like a bug when he does that. 'All I know is that you refuse to explain—' he twists his lips ruefully '—and, and c'mon, you looked all smug when I turned up alone? You keep digging in your heels, Zayn - how am I supposed to move on?'  
  
Zayn rolls his eyes. ‘How is dating someone else diggin’ in my heels? I’m trying to move on, babe - you’re the one who won’t let go.’  
  
'Well, move on, then,' Harry snaps, awkwardly trying to stay upright with the coats wavering at his back, 'but how about doing it properly? Let everyone know instead of holding it over my head. But just get it over with, alright? I do actually have better things to do than be ignored on Christmas Eve.'  
  
Harry’s such a  _twat_ , God. ‘What, like, being ignored by Nick? Don’t fuckin’ make me laugh. You came here because you wanted to see me, because you need me, because you want me.’ He’s breathing hard when he finishes.   
  
'Well. you want me, too,' says Harry. He's not smiling; he wouldn't dare. Zayn can read him anyway.  _I’ll always want you_ , he said, once, on a night a little bit like tonight: the both of them tucked away in some cramped little room, Harry tipsy and Zayn cornered; their families entirely elsewhere. Of course, back then Zayn had meant every word - tonight he’s not entirely certain he can trust anything either of them says.   
  
Think of Liam, he thinks, and he does - thinks of his arrogance, his bullheadedness, his insecurities. Thinks of how he won Zayn’s entire family over one by one, back when everyone was still carrying a silent torch for poor Harry. How he never bothers waiting up anymore - just leaves a wrapped plate on the counter.   
  
Because he trusts that Zayn will always come back home to him.  
  
'No, actually, I don't,' Zayn continues, winded, and a little bit sorry, 'not anymore.'  
  
Harry cocks his head. ‘No?’ he murmurs, reaching out slowly to brush Zayn’s hair to the side. His gloves are brown leather, cool and crumplingly sleek against Zayn’s forehead, against his cheek, his jaw. Around his throat. ‘Not even a little?’  
   
Zayn doesn’t say anything, just watches Harry watch him. He looks exhausted. And  _thin_ , thin like he hasn’t been since his second growth spurt. His hair looks like it could do with a bit of a wash, his eyes are smudged pink and puffy, and his five-glass flush makes him look feverish.   
  
Zayn really will always want him.

He sticks two fingers, still faintly cold, up under Harry’s coat and vest and shirt and into his belly button. Harry yelps and giggles, falls back a little against the teetering tower of boxes, smile wavering into a sulk. Zayn grins.  
  
'Not even a little,' he says. He pats Harry on the cheek, lets him grab his wrist and hold onto him. He's at least a little drunk, maudlin, probably, about the prospect of going home to an empty flat. Zayn can do this one thing for him. 'Happy Christmas, eh, babe?'  
  
'Happy Christmas,' Harry mumbles, and then he hauls him forward and kisses him, wet and sloppy and unrehearsed. Ah - Zayn can do this one… _other_  thing for him. ‘I  _am_  sorry,’ Harry says, hopelessly, licking the words into Zayn’s mouth. Only longterm experience with Harry mushmouth allows him to distinguish the rest: ‘I never said. All that rubbish I said about - tigers and, and spots, it wasn’t fair. It was-- _I_ was wrong, I should’ve trusted you.’  
  
Zayn allows one last disconsolate kiss, then pats Harry on the chest. ‘If it, like, makes you feel any better,’ he says, after a few steadying breaths, ‘you were right. Not about, like, the tigers and spots (they’ve got stripes, babe, obviously). But, like. about me. Sometimes I feel like—’   
  
He swallows, thinks about the night he’d found Harry and Nick together, thinks about what Harry’d said:  _Here’s that way out you’ve been looking for_. Lucky Nick had said something snide and disgusting so Zayn had an excuse to haul off and hit  _him_ ; there’d have been no returning from hitting Harry.  
  
Maybe there was no returning from any of it, anyway. ‘—like I’m shootin’ myself in the foot. Just like, again and again.’  
  
Harry peppers his face with kisses, like there hasn’t been a cold front between them for nearly a year. Always 0 to 60, with him. ‘Liam doesn’t think so,’ he says soothingly.  
  
'Well, I mean, I never,' mumbles Zayn, maybe the slightest bit distracted, 'there was, like, this girl, once, almost. But I never told him.' He stares at Harry through his eyelashes, even though he's so close Zayn probably looks cross-eyed and stupid. 'He doesn't think I've. got. like. spots.'  
  
'He trusts you,' Harry says, kisses coming slower now, and sweeter.  'He knows you'd never—'  
  
'Never,' Zayn agrees - and still he stops short when Harry goes for his belt.

 

 


	2. baby i'm not a monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He didn’t_ look _like he’d been ravaged to death by a werewolf, Zayn thought dubiously_. Ziall AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gift for the wonderful [ valencing](http://valencing.tumblr.com). Originally posted ([here](http://valencing.tumblr.com/post/73780014353/reqrdala-no-matter-what-happens-said-zayn)) 18 Jan 14.

 

 

'No matter what happens,' said Zayn gravely, 'you can't let me out.'

 

* * *

 

Thirteen hours later he came to, sucking on one of Niall’s old socks. He spit it out gingerly, stared over his shoulder at Niall. He was sleeping, smiling even; he didn’t  _look_  like he’d been ravaged to death by a werewolf, Zayn thought dubiously.  
  
'Niall. Hey. Niall,' he whispered, trying to sit up. His body hurt all over. Niall made a soft, unhappy noise in his sleep, cuddled him closer. Zayn stopped moving.  
  
'Oh, hey, mornin',' said Niall, throatily, almost two hours later. 'Whyn't you wake me?'  
  
He’d started petting Zayn at some point; Zayn took a while to remember human speech. ‘—You were s’posed to keep me locked up,’ he said, very eventually. He felt kind of dreamy and useless. It was difficult to remember why he’d been upset before.   
  
Then he remembered that he could’ve ripped out Niall’s throat without even thinking about it, without even wanting to - and it was like being tossed into the river all over again.  
  
'Oh, eh, yea,' said Niall, carelessly. He hooked his chin over Zayn's naked shoulder, right where the bite was, draped his arms loosely around him. Zayn didn't know how to alert him to the fact that one of them was naked beneath the sheets, without also alerting him to the fact that one of them was hard beneath the sheets. 'Worked out fine, though, didn't it?'  
  
'Niall,' said Zayn, turning his head to look at him. His face was right  _there_ ; it wasn’t hard. Niall stared back at him, grinned. Alright, so maybe it was a little hard.

Zayn quickly turned his head away. Focus! you idiot, he thought, swallowing hard. ‘I’m  _dangerous_ , man. I coulda killed you.’  
  
'Nah,' said Niall, nuzzling the side of Zayn's neck. 'You were cute.'

 

 


	3. sing one we know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to [places we've grown ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/962797). Commentary involving a brief discussion of abusive dynamics can be found ([here](http://olavidalo.tumblr.com/post/73621295326/commentary-unfinished-pwg-sequel-under-the-cut)).

 

 

In the end, it’s inclement weather which ruins Zayn’s punctuality: the Auckland drizzle is a blistering fog storm by the time he lands at LAX. They’re finally told about the delay after about three hours of milling through a mostly closed airport. When they’re told the storm’s still not letting up, and that it will be at least two more hours before they can take off again, a man two rows over bursts into tears. There’s no way we’re getting to Heathrow by morning, he says. Then he starts talking about a baby? or something. Zayn’s far too tired to even contemplate feigning sympathy, so he just puts his headphones in and goes to sleep.  
  
It’s over ten hours before he’s up in the air again. By the time the shuttle pulls up to the house, the only lights on are on the roof. He remembers (because he somehow forgot): Christmas is all winter long, with his dad. His way of remembering Mum.

A weird pang hits Zayn then, disconnected images and thoughts which make him feel like he’s still asleep, or at least very sad. Probably he’s due another dosage soon.   
  
He’s about to tell the driver to go on, on to the nearest hotel — just for the night, he tells himself — when he sees the curtains in the front room shift apart.  
  
A face peeks through.  
  
Zayn hesitates. The driver stares at him steadily.  
  
'Do you need help with your bags, please?' she asks, in a flat, patient voice.   
  
Zayn shakes his head, gives a generous tip, thanks her, gets out  — and is then stood out in the shivering snow for many minutes, just staring at the house. Doniya couldn’t believe it when he told her - he managed to be out of the country for Danny’s stag party, for Harry’s wedding, for Ant’s wife’s first, second and third baby shower - but he’ll pop back in for a week of housesitting?  
  
Can’t forget the babysitting, he thinks, wryly, when the uppermost window opens halfway and Saf sticks her head out.  
  
'Za-a-a-yn,' she says, sleepily, hair all in her face.   
  
'Sa-a-a-af,' he mimics, in a whisper. She grins, disappears back into the darkness of the attic. It's been over six months since he saw her last - she's probably taller than him by now. Caroline filled her head with all kinds of shit about modelling and doing shows and  _making contacts_. Now she’s on the verge of flunking out of school. Anne, as far as Zayn knows, is encouraging it, doesn’t seem to understand why Dad keeps insisting on a backup plan.

Which just goes to show you, he thinks, rolling his suitcase up the walkway, you could know someone for years and years and still not know—  
  
'Hey,' says Harry, from the doorway.  
  
—still not know them at all.  
  
It feels, a very little bit, like Zayn’s been punched in the stomach. ‘Hey,’ he says, catching the next bubble of air in a painful swallow before it can turn into a hiccup. He lets go of his rolling suitcase without fuss when Harry comes to take it from him. He doesn’t want to touch him. ‘Ehh, hope it wasn’t too much hassle…y’know, you coming out here.’  
  
'Oh, hey, no,' says Harry, in a low voice, waving him off, 'can't be helped.' They step into the house, listen to Saf trip and crash in the attic, grinning at each other politely. Harry smells like beef stew and Garioch. Zayn smells like fags and recycled air. Likely.  
  
Liyha’s on the old couch in front of the telly, fingers paused mid-pet atop Boris’s head, a news report about an ice storm flashing across her face. ‘She’s dead tired,’ Harry explains, toeing off his slippers, ‘she just got in at 9, her train was delayed for hours.’  
  
'Seems like there's been delays all 'round,' Zayn jokes, quietly, and he isn't at all prepared for the quick kiss Harry gives him in reply.  
  
'Yea,' Harry breathes, staring at him warily, as though their positions are reversed, 'yea.' He laughs a little, shakes his head. 'Sorry,' he says, taking an obvious step back, 'sorry! that was—I'm a little drunk, I think.'  
  
'No worries,' Zayn assures him, instinctively, though it's not okay, not really, not at all. But then Saf appears at the top of the stairs with a shout and, well. Doesn't really matter at that point, does it.

 

* * *

 

His clock’s off-kilter, of course, which means that after he showers, takes his meds, prays, and says goodnight, he spends about three hours staring up at the white ceiling and thinking of nothing. He dozes a little, slipping in and out of sleep, easy as changing sheets.

Over, under, around and through: the windows are wide and shadowed, this time around. The water comes up to his neck. His mum is singing somewhere in the next room, but he can’t hear her.

'It's okay to be lonely,' Dr Ngata tells him, once, twice, three times, before he really gets it - and it's then that he wakes up fully, swallowing hard against the wave of longing that he brings back with him.

Harry’s sat on the edge of the bed, watching him.

'…Still drunk?' Zayn whispers, at length.  
  
Harry’s smile seems like it should be on someone else’s face, as though it’s not meant for Zayn at all - like he’s picked up the phone and heard people laughing on either end. ‘Still angry?’  
  
Maybe more than anyone else, Zayn knows that it sometimes helps to re-open doors; that it sometimes helps to revisit the past. But often what’s settled is settled, and all you get for stirring up dust is a sneeze.  
  
'C'mere,' he says, quietly, instead of answering, patting the space beside him. Harry obeys, stiff and too-large for a moment before he melts into his side.   
  
'I've missed you, you know,' he murmurs, warm and grateful against his collarbone. Zayn recognises this technique, knows that if he were to look down into Harry's face, he wouldn't be able to deny him anything.   
  
He shuts his eyes tight and pretends not to hear.

 

* * *

 

He’s awoken several hours later by Liyha tossing a pillow at him. ‘Wake  _up_ ,’ she says, bouncing out of reach when he swats out blindly.   
  
'Mmf,' he grunts, still drifting.  
  
'How come you didn't wake me up when you got in,' she says, poking him softly in the back of the head. 'Zayn!'  
  
'B'cause  _I_  respect your sleepin’ patterns,’ Zayn says, muffled, still face-down in the sheets.   
  
In a rush, he remembers Harry. He opens his eyes cautiously, glances to the side, lets out a slight breath when he sees that he’s alone. That would be quite the thing to explain, his first night back.  
  
'Harry's on threeway with Adam and  _Caroline_  again,’ Liyha says, in a very bored, never-heard-of-torches-before-so-how-could-I-carry-one voice. She alone was neither surprised nor upset when Harry announced the separation via Facebook Update. ‘Obviously he’s about to burn the eggs. Can you come downstairs?’   
  
On the bedside table, Zayn’s mobile buzzes. New text. ‘O-o-oh, hang on, who’s  _Pe_ -rrie?’ says Liyha, grabbing it before he has a chance to. Apparently university has not weaned her off being a pest. Zayn watches her run off, unbothered - he’s got a password, he’s not about to go running after her. He stretches languorously, sighs, flops back against his pillow. For a moment, he seriously considers the merits of going back to sleep.   
  
Downstairs, Liyha shrieks. He tenses without meaning to, keeps his eyes firmly closed. A tangle of footsteps tumble up the stairs and in a matter of seconds, Safaa’s burst into the room, face lit up with tears.  
  
'Oh my God,' she says, breathlessly, 'are you getting married, too?'

 

* * *

 

He needs to change his bloody password.

 

* * *

 

He takes a long, long shower. His hands are still slightly wrinkled beneath his gloves when he takes Saf and Boris out for a walk.  
  
Boris can’t believe it’s really him, apparently - he keeps running ahead and hopping out at Zayn, mouth hanging wide open, tail wagging so hard his entire back half’s a blur. Zayn crouches down in the middle of the pavement, grinning, lets Boris slobber all over him a bit. ‘Good boy,’ he murmurs.  
  
'You're not talking me out of it,' says Saf, still upright.  
  
'How old is he,' Zayn asks, rubbing behind Boris' ears, where the fur's come in all grey.  
  
Saf doesn’t answer.  
  
'Hm? Is he my age?' Zayn looks up at her. Above them, the sky is a cloudless, crisp blue. The sun's behind her fuzzy cap; he can't see her face. 'Older?'  
  
She still doesn’t say anything. Zayn presses a kiss atop Boris’ head, gently shakes his jowls; hates Caroline with an intensity he’s not felt in years. ‘When are you telling Dad, then?’  
  
'When are you—when are you telling Anne you fucked her son,' she says, all in a wavering rush.  
  
Zayn lets out a short breath - then gets to his feet. Boris makes a huff of discontent. ‘We can tell them together, if y’like,’ he says. He tries his best to mean it.  
  
Saf looks like she’s near tears. ‘Zayn,’ she says, grabbing his hand. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I’m sorry.’  
  
She was young when he and Harry—when Harry started up with him. She was young when it ended, and she was young when he left. She’s young now. Probably it’d been hard for her to watch him hurt himself, and not understand—not understand  _why_ , and not be able to talk with anyone about it. Not even with him. Especially not him.  
  
Boris trots ahead. They go on after him.  
  
'Wish Mum were here,' Zayn murmurs. Here, in this moment - here on this Earth.   
  
Would she have known what to say? At one point in his life, Zayn would’ve said yes - but now he knows that no one can say the right thing all of the time; that sometimes nothing you say helps, no matter how you word it, no matter how much you need it to.  
  
Sometimes all you have is this: your youngest sister, squeezing your hand until it hurts.

  
  
+

  
  
Harry’s on the phone when Zayn and Saf get back in. ‘C’mon, boy,’ he hears Saf say, going upstairs from the sounds of it. Technically Boris isn’t allowed on the second or third floor, but that’s really the least of their problems just now.  
  
'I swear to you, this is the first time I'm hearing about any of this,' says Caroline. She sounds like how Harry still feels. 'If I'd known? I would've told you  _immediately_. I promise you I’m not running some kind of— _escort_  service and involving your stepsister. Christ, Harry.’  
  
Zayn ducks his head in the kitchen, gives him a wave. Harry waves back, raking his eyes all over his face. That beard looks really good on him.   
  
'Besides, it could be a boy from school, how do we know—'  
  
'But she hasn't  _been_  attending school, C,’ Harry has to point out. Zayn’s face brightens; he steps fully into the kitchen, backs Harry up a little near the counter.  
  
 _Is that Caroline?_  he mouths. Harry nods, surprised. This is the happiest Zayn’s ever looked at the prospect. Zayn makes a quick c’mere motion.  _Give me the phone_.  
  
'Hold on, Ca—' Harry says, and then Zayn grabs the phone from him and he realises what a mistake he's made.  
  
'Yea, Caroline?' says Zayn, almost pleasantly. 'Stay the fuck away from my family.' Then he rings off, tosses the mobile back. Harry fumbles to catch it. 'Don't call her in this house. Alright? Least not till we sort this out.' He nods at the pan, still smoking slightly. 'Your eggs are burnt.' He stalks out, and Harry is left to stare after him dumbly.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Coldplay's "Sparks"


	4. c'mon cherry cherry you're still very young

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Harry is just not that into sex_. Zarry. Uni AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning** : Un-nuanced discussion of sexual identity. Mildly dubious consent?

 

 

After six years of trying very determinedly to be bisexual, Harry, at 20, realised he just wasn’t interested. In any of it.  
  
Nick said it was a pity - but Nick also felt rather entitled where his cock was concerned, so Harry tended to take his words with a mine of salt.  
  
'Relationships aren't just about sex,' Nick said, when they were out the night before the day before hols. Harry had one exam the next afternoon and after that — freedom. 'Look, see, this right now? Where we are talking, and enjoying each others' company?' Harry took a photo of the street lamp, nodding attentively all the while. 'Some relationships, that's all there ever—why did you take a photo of that streetlight?'  
  
'Because I would like to treasure these precious moments,' said Harry, only he happened to look up just then, so most of his words stuck to the roof of his mouth.  
  
Nick turned to follow his gaze. ‘Oh, him,’ said Nick, turning away at once. ‘Don’t bother with him, I told you, he’s got  _appalling_  manners—’  
  
Harry realised the confusion. ‘I too hate Louis Tomlinson,’ he said, supportively. It must not have been very convincing: Nick rolled his eyes. ‘Though I was looking at his friend.’  
  
Nick turned around again. Across the street, right outside the pub, Louis Tomlinson and his friend were sharing a fag and laughing over something.   
  
'Oh,' said Nick, turning away after a few seconds. ' _Him_.’

 

* * *

 

'Who?' said Him.  
  
'Harry,' said Harry. 'I'm Harry. What's your name?'  
  
Him blinked. ‘Umm—?’ he said. ‘Do we know each other?’  
  
'No,' said Harry. 'That's why I'm introducing myself.' Him continued to stare at him in confusion. 'I've. I've seen you around.'  
  
'Oh,  _around_ , eh,’ Him said, grinning faintly. ‘And where have you seen me around.’  
  
'Just—around,' said Harry, beaming back. He knew he had a train to catch but he couldn't seem to move his feet.

Maybe it might be different this time.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t.

Harry had to get up early to catch the next train back home, Zayn had perfectly lovely fingers, and there was something wretchedly wrong with him because he hadn’t liked it all, really.

 

* * *

 

'Hey,' said Zayn. 'Sorry if this is—like, weird or pushy. Or. Like.'  
  
'It's fine,' said Harry. He looked down at his socks; wiggled his toes. 'How's Niall?'  
  
'Oh, he's great, yea, yea, yea, said Zayn. 'Very helpful, ha ha.'  
  
'Ha ha, yea,' said Harry. Why were they laughing?  
  
There was a pause.  
  
'Helpful with finding numbers, I mean,' Zayn clarified. 'I would've asked you for yours, only—'  
  
'I was in a hurry,' said Harry, in a hurry.  
  
'Right, yea, um, that was actually,' said Zayn, 'ummm. What I wanted to, like. talk with you about. Because you seemed—? U-u-e-h. It felt like—?'  
  
Harry waited.  
  
'It seemed like I hurt you,' said Zayn, very gently.  
  
'You didn't!' said Harry, sitting up. He hit the bottom of the top bunk with a little groan. 'Oww.'  
  
'Are you okay?' asked Zayn.  
  
'I'm fine,' said Harry, wincing.   
  
'Where are you?' said Zayn. 'I'll come get you.'  
  
'Oh. I'm not in London anymore, I'm home,' said Harry.  
  
Well, where’s home, Zayn asked, and Harry told him, and then he asked him where was home for him, and Zayn told him, and then he said, oh, Bradford, really?, how did you end up going to school in London? and by the time Zayn finished telling him about his extremely short-lived coin collection, it was almost 2 in the morning.  
  
Over breakfast, before gifts, Gem leaned close and said, ‘Try to keep your phone sex down - some of us still care about our beauty sleep.’  
  
'Shut up,' said Harry. It wasn't like that.

 

* * *

 

It really wasn’t like that. When Harry came back to school, he sort of worried that Zayn might try—that because they’d talked all through hols that he would think—  
  
”Sup,’ said Zayn, nodding his head as he walked by. Louis snorted.  
  
Nick snorted back. ”Sup,’ said Harry, experimentally.

 

* * *

 

Zayn was just really nice. He never said anything bad about Nick, even though Harry knew he didn’t like him much. He brought Harry soup when he was feeling a little under the weather, didn’t make fun of him for being really awful at CoD, and even helped him revise for his Philosophy midterm in between filling out job applications. Internships were fine, he always said, internships were great - but they didn’t pay the rent.  
  
'That's it, I'm going to fail,' said Harry. 'Mnemonics aren't working here; it is quite literally all Greek to me.' He flopped facedown on a bed of misery - and also facedown on his actual bed.  
  
'The trick with keeping 'em all straight,' said Zayn, above him, in the wise voice of someone who had already graduated early with honours, and knew that none of it made a difference, 'is flashcards.'  
  
'Flashcards?' Harry repeated, perking up.  
  
Zayn smiled indulgently. ‘Yup,’ he said. ‘Flashcards.’

 

* * *

 

Harry got decent marks on his midterms and Zayn picked up two decent jobs.  
  
'I wanted to be, like, a waiter, but then they heard me talkin', and they said, like, I'd make a better host? But I dunno,' said Zayn, of one of his interviews, on the night they went out to celebrate. He seemed kind of down about it.  
  
'I think that had more to do with your face,' Harry said, taking a sip of his pint. He grimaced - it was a little too cold for his tastes. 'If I was walking by and I saw you—'  
  
'—you'd think, heyyy, proper nice study buddy,' Zayn said. It was unclear where the joke was in his statement; Harry laughed anyway.  
  
'Ooh, tell me the joke, I want to laugh, too,' said the woman next to them. Harry was trying to figure out a polite way to ask her to leave them alone forever, please, when Zayn laughed and said, 'Oh, ask Harry, he'll tell you all about it.'  
  
The woman smiled and flicked her attention to Harry. ‘Oh, will he, now?’ she said. She was really pretty, Harry thought gloomily. If you liked that sort of thing. The dazzlingly pretty sort of thing. Which most did.  
  
'Yup,' said Zayn, easily. He clapped Harry on the shoulder, a good luck, go-forth-and— kind of touch. And then he found someone else to talk to.

 

* * *

 

Harry ate her — Gigi, she said her name was; ‘the product of me mum’s French phase’ — Harry ate Gigi out because she was very kind and very patient, and she didn’t even make a fuss when he didn’t get hard.  
  
'If you weren't in the mood, love, you could've just said,' she said, rubbing his back. 'I'm a big girl!, I can handle meself. Truth be told, I was actually interested in your friend. Now  _there’s_  a looker, hey.’  
  
'Right?' said Harry, miserably.

 

* * *

 

'So you probably had a good time last night, eh?' said Zayn, the next day, waggling his eyebrows.  
  
'Not really,' said Harry, and then he pretended someone was calling him and avoided Zayn for the rest of the week.

 

* * *

  
Zayn showed up at his dorm on Friday night, drunk. ”m sorry, if, like,’ he said, ‘I made you uncomf’t’ble. You jus, you jus, like.’ He stared hard at the wall - then he started talking about goldfish for a while. Right when Harry was feeling safe again, he came back around to: ‘You should’n have to put up. like. with  _me_. And all my shit.’ He rolled over, patted Harry on the face. When drunk, he was, by turns, cuddly and maudlin. ‘You’re gu’lad, Haz. Jus. Very, like. Snoggy.’  
  
'Snoggy?' Harry repeated. He quite liked putting up with Zayn Malik's shit.  
  
'Snoggy,' Zayn said firmly. And then he snogged him. And then he passed out.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Zayn pretended he didn’t remember, so Harry pretended he didn’t, either.

 

* * *

 

—for about five minutes.

'Look, last night,' he said, loudly. Zayn winced, and held his head. 'Last night,' Harry said, more sensitively. 'Last night you kissed me. Okay?'  
  
'Okay,' grumbled Zayn. 'I mean, I know. I know, Haz. I'm sorry.'  
  
'You don't have to apologise,' said Harry.

 

* * *

 

'Was it, like. a bad snog?' Zayn asked, later. This time Harry was cuddly; Zayn was maudlin all on his own. He kept touching the sides of Zayn's head; he'd had them shaved. He'd also gotten fired. From the restaurant; the on-campus library didn't care what he looked like. Well. They didn't care all that  _much_. Harry liked his haircut, at least.  
  
'Was  _what_  a bad snog?’ Harry asked, stroking, stroking.  
  
'Was  _I_  a bad snog,’ said Zayn. ‘Only I thought, if you liked it—’  
  
'I did like it,' said Harry. 'I don't mind kissing.'  
  
So they started kissing.

 

* * *

 

Aimes and the rest of them threw Nick a little goodbye party, when he got the internship he’d been holding out for. It was meant to be tiny and intimate, just a few friends at the pub — but finally so many people came through they had to relocate to a more private venue. Namely - the pub across the street.  
  
'There is a Zayn Malik at my farewell afterparty,' said Nick, coming up behind him.  
  
'There is,' Harry acknowledged, not turning around. Near the window, Zayn was trying valiantly to muster up a fuck about photos of Alexa's new cat.  
  
'You're sure where you wanna go with him?' asked Nick, wrapping his arms around his middle. Harry leaned back against him.  
  
'Not too sure,' he admitted. 'But we'll figure it out.'  
  
Nick held him. ‘—I really will miss you,’ Harry admitted, as loudly as he dared.    
  
'Aww. Haz.' Nick hugged him tighter. Somewhere, a door slammed. 'Ooh…better go get your boy — think he might've got the wrong idea about a thing or two.'  
  
Harry found Zayn outside, smoking restlessly. He looked up when Harry came out, and then went back to glaring at the street and general passersby. Harry wasn’t sure it had quite the intended effect - there was a slight crowd of tourists lingering, whispering in awe.  
  
'Nick's leaving,' said Harry.  
  
Zayn took a very long time to exhale. ‘I’d gathered that, thanks,’ he said, clipped.  
  
'We're not fucking,' said Harry. 'We don't even kiss anymore.'  
  
Zayn did not seem appeased. ‘Not sure why you’re tellin’ me, mate,’ he said, with a fake smile.  
  
'Only. you seemed kind of angry…' Harry trailed off.  
  
'Alright, well. I'm not,' said Zayn, and then he stalked off.

 

* * *

 

'I was a little angry,' Zayn admitted, later, when Harry went into his line at Tesco's with the apology hat on. It was silly; it had bells. A humbling experience, Zayn'd said. 'I just feel like. I want this to go somewhere. But I dunno what to ask. Ya get me?'  
  
'I get you,' said Harry, and then he leaned forward and kissed him, quick, before he lost his nerve.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Dragonette's "Pick Up The Phone"


	5. untitled f!ziall snippet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Monsters are coming_. Fantasy/sci-fi, cisswap, AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. **Warnings** : PTSD, Cisswap, Brief vomiting (not as part of an eating disorder), Self-hatred, Body Image Issues, Xenophobia, Past Kidnapping, Bullying, Implied abuse  
> II. Inspired by that M&G photo of Zayn pressing an ardent kiss to Niall’s upper arm

 

 

Niall was awoken by Cook slapping the back of her head.  
  
'Monsters are coming, girl,' he hissed, before she could apologise, ' _hide_.’

And then he shoved her beneath a door in the floor that she’d never seen before, not in all her years of ducking in and out of the kitchens.   
  
The passageway below was cramped and old and airless. The only reason Niall managed to make herself move forward was because she heard the way Cook screamed.

 

* * *

 

The passageway came to an end far up on the other side of the city, miles beyond the abandoned quarters.

Niall came out on the other side tired and sweaty — both of her knees hurt by now, and her lungs positively ached. She wished she weren’t so  _hungry_  - if only she’d done her chores earlier, she could’ve eaten last night.

She thought of Cook, about the crackling noises his body made when it was sliced up, buried her face in her hands, stupid and bruised and entirely the wrong shape.

She fell asleep to the whispering of the gritter grass, huddling around her for warmth.

 

* * *

 

When Niall awoke, she was no longer dozing in a bed of gritter grass - she was laid out in an actual bed. She tensed, kept her eyes shut.  
  
'Ah, so you're awake,' said a chirpy, purple-ish kind of voice, in Luric. Niall felt under her pillow for her knife on instinct — stupid, she thought, and leapt up kicking and punching when she obviously didn't find it.  
  
'Oh! oh! oh, dear, oh my,' said the little gnuine, flapping its ears until it had flown safely far above Niall's reach. 'My lowly self did  _not_  mean to offend the most exalted person in this room, my lowly self was just not aware that the most heavenly person in this room preferred the formal tense. But my lowly self will seek to oblige.’ It dipped a little, dangerously.  
  
'Er,' it said, shakily. 'M-my lowly self would raise a question for the most precious listener in this room — may I land now? My ears only just grew in, oh, I mean—the ears of my lowly self—oh, I mean—my lowly self means—oh, oh no!' The gnuine's blathering turned out to be its literal downfall: one of its ears stopped whirring and it floatingly tumbled to the floor.  
  
'Ouch,' it said, reprovingly.  
  
Niall, who was busy glaring at the big ugly purple room around her, and at the great stupid lush blue out the window, ignored it. ‘Where am I? Where’ve you taken me, ya filthy beast?’ she said. Everybody knew you couldn’t trust a gnuine.  
  
The gnuine’s fourth eye turned pink and it curled up into itself.  
  
'Well, that's not particularly kind,' said a voice from the doorway. In one quick movement, Niall had grabbed the gnuine off of the ground and held it to her chest as she turned to face the monster at the door.  
  
The monster had long black hair, and dark eyes, and an evil little forehead. ‘Where’m I,’ breathed Niall, tightening her grip. The gnuine’s throats quivered beneath her hand.  
  
The monster looked unimpressed. ‘O Most Honourable One,’ it said, in a dead drone, ‘the location of we — precious you and us low two, one and two and therefore three — lies beyond the tar, in the House of Sea, near the stone place far; we wait on the kingdom; they know where you are, they know where you’ll be.’  
  
'Oh, oh, Zayn, when will you teach  _me_  how to do that,’ said the gnuine, slipping through Niall’s hands like water. The monster named Zayn caught the gnuine with a small, evil smile — more of a  _smirk_  than anything else, really.  
  
Zayn started speaking in a different, chirruping tongue. The gnuine went bright orange around its edges, whirred dreamily around Zayn’s shoulders. Niall felt her heart racing. They were talking about how to  _kill_  her. They were going to slice her up and her body would be as scattered glass, they were going to melt her down and  _drink_  out of her—  
  
The gnuine turned its eyes to her, bounced through the air towards the bed.  
  
'O Most, Most Healthy One,' it said, in Luric, 'this lowly one must ask: how fares the insultingly beautiful one in this room? Its face—'  
  
'Thy face,' murmured Zayn, with one of her evil little smirks.  
  
'— _thy_  face,’ corrected the gnuine, in a high, pleased tone. ‘Thy face goes pale. Are thy well? Thy?’  
  
Zayn chuckled — it came from her throat, instead of from her arms, the same way Niall’s did. Hers sounded smooth and warm, like the edge of a knife covered in stomachblood.

Not like Niall’s - hers sounded jagged and raspy. Whenever she forgot her place back home, the others would tackle her and tickle her until she was crying with laughter.  
  
'Cook may kowtow to you,' they said, because they didn't know about the beatings, 'but you'll never be more than a sandthroat to us.'  
  
Seemed, even amongst her own kind, Niall still didn’t fit.  
  
She was, abruptly, quite sick over the edge of the bed.

 

* * *

 

Niall expected Zayn to hit her or yell at her for being disgusting and weak; instead she brought her an orb for her to rinse her face with, and then she got down on her hands and knees and cleaned up Niall’s vomit herself.  
  
'No, no, y'don't have to,' Niall tried to say, embarrassed. She tried to muster up the energy to tell her she would clean it herself; and failed.  
  
'Don't worry about it,' Zayn said, without looking at her. Grateful, Niall dropped her head back against the pillows - and then flinched when Zayn raised up her palms. Idiot, she cursed herself, trying to shield her stomach. How could she have relaxed her guard so quickly!   
  
'I'm just gonna cast a spell,' Zayn said, slowly, freezing her hands. 'One to get rid of the smell. S'that okay?'  
  
Niall glared at her closely. What kind of game was she playing here? Calling her Honoured One and all that rot, and pretending she had any sort of power here? Monsters really were  _sick_.  
  
'Whatever,' she said, in awkward Luric, and pointedly put her hands to her side. Zayn quirked her lips, but soon bent her head to her work, humming, weaving seals over the air with her voice.   
  
Her magic would be  _purple_ , Niall thought, disgusted, peering over the bed.

The vomit was peeling off of the ground, shivering and spinning between Zayn’s hands; as Niall watched, it fell apart and came together, turning darker and darker. It looked like sand, first, fresh and smooth from the beach; then earth, deep red, from the bottom of the mountains; then finally it looked like the deep, dark soil that came before the swamps.   
  
A hole formed in the middle, gradually, and a bit of the soil came crushing together. The soil fell apart and came together again and again, covering the hole up. Each time there was less and less left - finally there was just a small, round ball. Dark brown - nearly black, green where the light hit it.   
  
Zayn ended her song - the spell stopped, the ball dropped into her hand.  
  
'All that to get rid of the smell, huh,' Niall murmured.  
  
Zayn glanced up at her. And smiled. She didn’t move, just stayed crouched there.

Niall realised (with the sort of distance she might’ve had, just peering into the doorway on the two of them) that she was waiting for Niall’s permission to stand.   
  
Niall dipped her head sharply, blushing, not looking at her stand.  
  
'This is yours,' said Zayn, holding it out halfway to her. Niall very nearly took it, because it smelled good, like a day in the woods during rain - but then Zayn had to add: 'O Most Precious One.'  
  
'Oh, go on, would you,' Niall snapped, and then she slapped the ball out of the monster's hand. It knocked against the shelf of books with a hollow, dead sound - and the sudden pain of it brought back the sound of the passage doorway closing in over her head.   
  
The monster blinked in confusion. ‘Your Holiness—’ it said, reaching out a hand to, to—  
  
 _Monsters are coming_ , Cook said, over and over in her head. Niall curled up in the sheets and hid her face, and hid her body, and hid and hid and hid.  
  
'Get  _out_ ,’ she croaked, voice thick with tears.   
  
The third monster exited the room, and left the first one all alone.

 

 


	6. closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'I don't want you to be weird about this,' said Harry, warily_. Zarriall. Crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : OOC. Perrie-rasure? Implied situations where a safeword is desirable. Powerplay? Un-nuanced discussion of negotiation. kind of weird implications. maybe. idk.

 

 

The sex was, surprisingly, mediocre.  
  
’ _Hhu_! that was nice, mate, thanks,’ said Niall, flopping over onto his side. He was probably going to doze for a bit before bustling off to the bathroom; he still had a bit of Zayn’s cum on his chin.  
  
'I—' said Zayn.  
  
Niall looked over at him, neither disappointment nor recrimination lingering in his face. ‘Yea?’ he said, patiently. ‘Dja need somethin’?’  
  
'—m,' said Zayn, looking away. 'Nah.'

 

* * *

 

Zayn remembered last summer, when Niall was fucking around with one girl on the regular. It wasn’t a big deal; Zayn had once bought a girl named Melissa tickets and accommodations for their following two city dates. She was waiting for him in his room after the show the first time; the second time around she texted him an hour late, saying,  _sorry i got busy this hotel room is fckn awesum tho_ _thanks!!!_  
  
There were other girls, other rooms; thankfully Zayn’s technique improved over time.  
  
Zayn knew Liam had done it more than a few times, back when he and Dani were going through their pre-breakup rocky period, back before he and Sophia tried it out for real. Louis had done it only the once, later confided in Zayn that it made him feel kind of weird.   
  
Harry kept his business to himself.  
  
Last summer, Niall had walked around with this heavy, blissed-out look. He was even more agreeable than usual, took all of Louis’s ridiculous pranks with a smile that stretched for miles.

Zayn was willing to bet that, if you’d asked him, he wouldn’t have described the sex as ‘nice’.

 

* * *

 

Harry put his mobile down. ‘I don’t think I want to give you information on how to fuck Niall,’ he said, slowly, in almost precisely the same way he'd once said ‘I don’t think I want to give you information on how to pull Niall.’  
  
Key difference: Zayn hadn’t known Harry would  _have_  information on how to fuck Niall. He’d just been running his mouth, hadn’t even thought Harry was, like, listening.  
  
'So you've got information on how to fuck Niall.' Zayn nodded. It was—it was—surprising. Or maybe not so much — he'd known Niall'd fucked around with blokes before. But with Harry? That was—yea. That was somethin'.  
  
'I don't want you to be weird about this,' said Harry, warily. He never bothered trying to lie about who he'd been with; he just was never into that whole laddish thing of shouting it from the rooftops. Well. Not after the first, like, twenty times, he wasn't.  
  
'I'm not gonna be weird about it,' Zayn said, dismissively.

 

* * *

 

Niall dropped his controller and died a bloody death on-screen. His cheeks were all red. ‘Wh—’ he scrunched up his face, darted his eyes from side to side. ‘Is this. emm. did Harry—’ He ran a hand over the bottom of his face, hid his mouth and chin from view. Stared, narrow-eyed and thoughtful, outside the dark bus window, where Harry was posing with a giddy construction worker.  
  
'Harry didn't say anything, man,' Zayn said, pressing pause. 'I was just—I know he's into that whole kind of thing. And I wondered.' He shrugged.  
  
Niall tipped his head to the side, looked at Zayn. His face was still red. Zayn’s might’ve been, too. A little. ‘You wondered.’ Testing.  
  
'Wondered if you wanted to try some of that out—' in the lounge, Louis started kicking Liam in the thigh; Liam ignored him with a smile. Zayn swallowed, but in such a way so Niall wouldn't see. '—With, euh. With me.'  
  
Niall stared at him, thinking. Zayn liked Niall’s face when he laughed and smiled; he liked it when he was quiet and intent, too. ‘Y’sure?’ he said. ‘There’s kind of a— learning curve.’  
  
'Y'know I'm a quick learner,' said Zayn, wiggling his eyebrows.

 

* * *

 

'So, euh,' said Zayn, casually, with the others safely away on the other bus. 'Say I wanted to learn how to do. Like. Safewords or sommat. How'd I go about it?'  
  
Harry didn’t even bother looking up from his mobile. ‘You are being very specifically weird about this,’ he said.  
  
'How'm I being weird? I'm just showing, like. An interest in you. And like. Your ways. Bro.'  
  
Harry did glance up at him then, the barest suggestion of a smile at his lips. ‘My  _ways_.’ He shook his head.  
  
Zayn wasn’t above begging. ‘Harry,’ he said. He nudged their thighs together, briefly. ‘C’mon.’  
  
Harry shook his head again, grinned ruefully. ‘Safewords aren’t a thing you  _do_ ,’ he said, after a bit. ‘They’re a thing you say, if either of you doesn’t feel comfortable with what’s happening. Sometimes people like saying no—’  
  
'Yea, I know that,' Zayn said, because he did know how to google, actually, 'no when they mean yes, I know that, man, I got that.'  
  
Harry bit his lips before they spread out into a full smile. Zayn had the distinct sensation that he was laughing at him in his head. ‘Niall will do whatever you want,’ he said, finally. ‘But if you let him do whatever he wants?’ He clapped Zayn around the back of his neck. His hand was warm and big, smooth and bulky where his rings had slid around backwards. ‘You should talk it out beforehand. And you should definitely consider a safeword.’

 

* * *

 

'That was brilliant, man, thanks,' said Niall, three weeks and several explicit conversations later. 'I'm just gonna order something, didja want anything?'  
  
Zayn gibbered something incoherently into his pillow. Niall stroked his hair; it felt like he was dragging a single nail down the middle of his back.  
  
'Nn,' said Zayn, trying to raise his head. 'Chips. Sand—chips. Thank you. Thank you.'  
  
'Sandwich, chips, got it,' Niall recited, leaning down and kissing his forehead. 'And you're welcome. Any time, ha ha.'  
  
'Thank you,' Zayn said again, feeling—feeling—all melted down. 'Ni—pl—thank you.'

Niall’s grin shifted, just a little.  
  
They didn’t end up getting room service ‘till much later; Zayn was even more exhausted the next morning. He curled up between Niall and Harry on the way to the Seventeen photoshoot, tried to ignore the silent conversation they were having over his head.

 

 


	7. breeds contempt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Looking at him, you would think his greatest ambition in life was to watch Animal Park; that here his purpose was fulfilled, and no accidentally incestuous one night stands would be distracting him from it._ Zayn+Harry. AU. Crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Accidental incest :(

 

 

There were three people in the world it was impossible to buy for:  
  
1\. The man who had everything.  
2\. The man who had nothing.  
3\. The man who had half of your mother’s DNA.  
  
Harry made do. ‘I brought Weetabix?’ he said, rain dripping off his nose. Zayn’s face lit up, then he frowned - he eventually settled on dipping his head and herding Harry inside. He spirited the cereal away into the kitchen, came back in time to help Harry out of his anorak and hang it up. He disappeared and reappeared with a small towel to wipe the mud off of Harry’s wellies.

His flat, Harry thought, sitting lightly on the sunken armchair, was a little bit of a labyrinth, wasn’t it?  
  
'Lovely weather we're having,' said Harry, when he thought the silence between them had stretched quite far enough. Zayn nodded absently, puttered around the sitting room area, shoving and piling books out of sight. He hadn't yet spoken a word. Likely he'd had Saturday morning plans that had nothing to do with eating breakfast with his not-all-that-long-lost half-brother.  
  
Well. Too bad. They were going to bloody  _bond_ , damn it.  
  
Harry cleared his throat. ‘Is there tea?’ he said, lightly. Zayn teleported out of sight, returned in two trips with Milo, the Weetabix, two bowls, two spoons, brown sugar, and milk.

Harry did not ask if there was any honey: Zayn didn’t seem like a honey kind of bloke. And apparently even tea had been too much of a hindrance.  
  
They ate quietly, with the telly on in the background, Harry glancing at Zayn out of the corner of his eye, Zayn slowly and deliberately chewing and staring straight ahead. Looking at him, you would think his greatest ambition in life was to watch Animal Park; that here his purpose was fulfilled, and no accidentally incestuous one night stands would be distracting him from it.

 

 


	8. untitled telekinesis ziall ficlet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Her lips weren’t moving_. Niall+f!Zayn. Cisswap, vaguely telekinetic superpowers.

 

 

Niall never really cared much either way for art before he got to university. It was nice, in its own way; wee bit confusing the more you had to talk about it, but that could be said for most things: literature, fashion, gangster rap, what have you. But Niall could appreciate it, from a certain standpoint.  
  
He was no longer quite as impartial. ‘Look, Professor Malik,’ he said.  
  
'Yaser is fine, please,' Professor Malik said, absently, rummaging through his canvas bag. Then he blinked up, seemed to realise he was talking to a student. 'Oh. Sorry.  _Look, Professor Malik_ — you were saying… please go on?’  
  
'It's not that I don't like your class—,' he said.  
  
'—but you already missed the Add or Drop date?' Professor Malik said, nodding.  
  
Niall hadn’t missed the Add or Drop date, actually; once he’d seen the textbooks (text _books_ , plural) for the course, he’d emailed his counsellor on his iPhone, in between the pages of the ten-page syllabus. All of the courses he needed to take or could’ve taken, however, were already filled for the semester; and he couldn’t drop below 15 credits or else his scholarship would have been in question. And he hadn’t been about to waste his dad’s money on some useless course just because he wasn’t into art.   
  
He’d just have to buckle down and apply himself, he’d thought.  
  
This was before he’d failed the first two tests. He’d done the reading, but the questions weren’t a matter of remembering terms or dates. No, they were all free answer, all fuckin’ like —  _Recall the perspective of proportionality as outlined in the bloody_ Canon _. Identify the_ Canon _'s cuntfaced author and address the limitations of said perspective by discussing at least two works by some other fuckin' cuntface._    
  
Introductory Art History — it had a pass rate of 43% online. Niall was surprised it wasn’t lower.  
  
Probably not what Professor Malik wanted to hear, though. ‘Sir,’ said Niall, swallowing. ‘I can’t fail this course.’  
  
Professor Malik set his bag down with a sigh. ‘You know…I don’t think my car keys are in here at all,’ he said. He smiled plainly, at Niall. ‘Go get them from my daughter, please?’  
  
Niall stared at him. The fuck kind of tutorial was this. ‘Ehh,’ he cleared his throat, shifting more upright. ‘Sorry, where’s she?’  
  
The library, he was told, near the back, in one of the cubicles near the gold-plated archive shelves. Niall heard the muffled music clearer and clearer the further back he went. A girl with lightly bobbing black hair was flipping a biro around her fingers. Quick, Niall thought; the biro barely looked like it was touching her fingers.  
  
'Ehhh,' he said, clearing his throat. She caught him in her periphery, blinked up at him. Stilled.  
  
oh, she said. Her eyes were liddy, reddish. She had a tattoo peeking out from the back of her neck; she smelled faintly of pot. hey. you’re like me.   
  
Her lips weren’t moving.  
  
'The keys,' Niall said, blandly. 'Professor Malik sent me to get the keys.'  
  
She pulled her headphones out with a slight frown.  _I_   _want you to use yourself, like you never ever used it before_ — The biro kept spinning.

hey, she said, why are you—  
  
'Sorry, your dad sent me to get some keys from you?' Niall said, a little bit louder, as though maybe she hadn't heard him.  
  
i /did/ hear you, she said, adding a loud smattering of thoughts he couldn’t interpret. Niall didn’t flinch. stop ignorin’ me. prick.  
  
Niall held out his hand expectantly. The girl grumbled, glowering up at him as she pulled her bag up from between her feet and dug through it. When both hands uncovered nothing, she finally just dumped her entire bag on the desk. Niall spotted the keys a moment before she did, yanked them up and into his hand before she could reach for them. All without moving.   
  
The biro froze, mid-air.  
  
'Heya,' he said, with a grin. His heart was pounding; he felt like he might be sick. He held up the keys in a flash. 'Thanks.'  
  
Professor Malik’s daughter stuck her tongue out at him. you got lucky, she said. now did ya wanna get tutored any time soon? or were you just plannin’ on showin’ off?  
  
Hm, said Niall, leaning his hip against the little wooden wall. Can’t I do both?  
  
She crinkled up her nose. why’d’ya sound like a sex operator? she said, beaming.   
  
Dunno what you mean, Niall said, imitating Barry White.   
  
The girl cackled, goofy and loud. your voice is not that deep, mate, sorry, try again.

 

 


	9. half as impossible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Don't change the story - that's not how it goes.'_ Zayn+Liam. Thor!AU, (reversed?) age difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Glib allusions to imperialism + war.

 

 

_The Jotunn waits at the door_   
_of the mouse. ‘Let me in, let_   
_me in,’ he cries. ‘This rain is_   
_unbearable!’ ‘I cannot, I_   
_cannot, I will be crushed!’ says_   
_the mouse, but she weeps_   
_most bitterly. Therefore the_   
_Jotunn raises his arms, and_   
_shields her little home._

 

* * *

 

The cell has no windows; it once held Heimdall, the summer a sickness tore his sight and drove him mad. No one with ill intent can enter, and no one with ill intent can leave.  
  
The door won’t let Liam in.

 

* * *

 

By the time Liam was of weaning age, Zayn had already read all the books in the library three times, and added several of his own. He was the ambassador to Dvergar, was on extremely good terms with Jotunheim, and had half the court’s daughters after him. In his less gracious moments, Louis would say, quite baldly, that he didn’t see the appeal - but that was alright. Apparently everyone else did.   
  
Idunn was very fond of Zayn: he was always pulling an apple or two from his sleeves. He could make people laugh, could turn a pretty phrase, never turned down drinks or company — he slid out of a nearby door whenever you wanted him, disappeared hours before his strangeness started to grate. And the All-Father was always in a beautiful mood whenever he was around, too: the wine seemed somehow sweeter when Zayn and he spoke, the laughter deeper, the air divine.  
  
Still he was aloof.  
  
'He was different as a child,' said Mother, in her voice made of flowerbeds. While Liam was still short enough, she would draw her brush the wrong way against his scalp, and read his fortune in the whorls left behind. Harold said that once, long ago, it was only ever possible to read the fates of people who'd had their veins emptied, and by then the prognosis was already conclusive. Liam didn't know if that was true — Harold was always inventing horrible stories — but he'd take this kind of scrying over that any time.   
  
'No one had ever seen a babe so small,' she continued. Zayn was, in fact, quite tiny for his age - no doubt Liam would tower over him fully in less than a half-century's time. 'The court adored him and he adored the court. But then his powers started to truly manifest and—well.'  
  
Well. Everyone knew magic was a woman’s art; it was unseemly, unforgivable that Zayn should excel at it so. He’d started hiding it long before Liam was born, but if you watched him very closely — as Liam of course did — you could see a strange shimmering: the air parting in ease to let him through; the books leaping to his grasp; the desire for more thick at the back of your throat.  
  
Sometimes Liam wondered how far down the enchantments went - did it explain Zayn’s eyes, his grin, the way that he walked? Did it explain how dull and brutish and ordinary Liam was?

 

* * *

 

'You cannot keep me here forever,' Zayn says, one day, when Liam's pacing in front of the door, trying to figure out a way in. His voice is scratchy from disuse - Liam had long given up on trying to make him talk.   
  
Mjolnir shivers in Liam’s grasp. ‘It is not I who keeps us apart.’  
  
’ _Why should we two align_ ,’ Zayn says. ‘ _The fires waste, the women chaste, the draught’s empty of wine._ ’  
  
'I have no need of your damned poetry!' Liam shouts; just last night he confessed to Mother that he rather missed it.   
  
'You tire of rhyme?' Zayn says, laughing a little. 'Very well, then.  
  
’ _The Jotunn waits at the door_  
 _of the mouse_ —’  
  
Oh, damn him. He knows Liam loves this story.  
  
'                — _"Let me in, let_  
 _me in,” he cries. “This rain is_  
 _unbearable!” “Oh, I cannot, I_  
 _cannot, for I will be crushed,”_  
 _says the mouse sadly. But the_  
 _Jotunn grows enraged_ —’  
  
'Don't change the story, that's not how it goes,' Liam cuts in. Zayn again ignores him.  
  
'                                 — _and_  
 _stomps the mouse and her_  
 _home to many pieces._ ”’  
  
Liam takes a long, steadying breath; he is very aware of Hugin and Munin’s eyes on the back of his neck. ‘I don’t—’ he rests his head against the door, tries to envision Zayn before him — within reaching distance. ‘What wrong have the humans done you, Zayn, that you should war with them?’  
  
'I  _am_  human, brother,’ Zayn says, quietly. Liam shakes his head - he’s wrong, Danielle’s wrong, the All-Father’s  _wrong_. It cannot be true. ‘And I don’t seek war with all of them - just with a select few.’   
  
'A select few? —Zayn,' Beneath his cheek, the door warms and quivers - Liam thinks it could open. If he tried it just then. 'They are so very far beneath you, why should it matter this much? Fain give it time - they will die on their own.'  
  
'I am sure you would wait Jotunheim out while they attacked your home indiscriminately,' Zayn says. His voice is higher up - he must be standing. 'O  _Mighty_  One.’  
  
Liam stands upright as well. The two situations are hardly alike. ‘Midgard is  _not your home_ , Zayn,’ he says, voice ringing hard against the door. ‘And its wars are not your own.’  
  
'Not while I languish here, they aren't,' Zayn agrees.

 

* * *

 

Zayn used to let him into his rooms in the mornings - Liam would watch him shave the stubble from his face and wonder just when  _he_  would be able to grow a beard. How was it possible for someone so young-heighted to grow so much hair? Back then Liam’d thought it just another area he failed in, as the lesser Prince.  
  
On a morning like any other, Liam came in chattering about something foolish Niall had done. In his haste to tell the story, he’d slammed the door behind him.

Until that day, Liam’d always thought it a funny coincidence, that doors should always find themselves open whenever he wanted to speak with Zayn alone.  
  
That day, Zayn went from lazily listening in bed to upright and awake in seconds.   
  
'Open the door,' he said. Liam flinched, taken entirely off-guard by his tone.  
  
'W—but. but why,' he mumbled, shifting from foot to foot.   
  
Zayn gave no answer, just flicked the door open with his hand: Liam’s guard Ygr had his staff raised and ready to strike. Zayn made no comment, just slid out of bed and went to his room of wet mirrors. Liam hung in the doorway, haltingly telling the story - it didn’t feel amusing or large enough to warrant Zayn’s attention anymore.

Still Zayn laughed and smiled and watched him; his blade glimmered and winked when it dipped into the glass. Liam felt very young.  
  
The next morning — and every morning afterward — Zayn’s door was locked.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Idunn’s golden apples grant immortality.  
> II. Title from Arctic Monkeys's "Crying Lightning"


	10. niall and the giant leemstalk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall-centric, Jack and the Giant Beanstalk!AU. Crack, embarrassing, etc

 

 

Niall comes home to his mother stood up on a chair in the kitchen, clutching his father’s clothing and staring avidly at the floor. When he tries to whirl around back outside, she yelps his name, then hops from chair to chair to sliding foot stool to couch to front door. The trainers leap apart upon her landing.  
  
'Hey, mam,' he says, resigned, reaching down to re-sort them. 'Dad lost again?'  
  
'Forgot to take his meds,' she says, nodding. This means:  _couldn’t afford his meds this month_. ‘Didn’t want to step on him this time. Your brother’s out buying cheese; we think he might be under th’ fridge.’  
  
Niall nods. ‘Is there, ah,’ he tries, ‘anything to eat?’  
  
Niall’s mother gives him a bleak look. ‘Niall, I’m so sorry, love,’ she says.  
  
'Sorry about what,' he says, with some alarm.  
  
'It's,' she says, wringing her hands, 'it's about your pet cow.'

 

* * *

 

'Sorry about this,' says Niall, Bessie trodding softly beside him. 'Don't really know what mam is thinkin'. Can't exactly sell you in the mall, now can I?  _Sell you in the marketplace,_  Jesus. What kind of economy does she think we’re in?’  
  
Bessie sends him a limpid look. She still gave milk when Niall was born; he’s taken care of her ever since she stopped.   
  
'Aw,' says Niall, swallowing hard, 'don't give me that look, Bess.' He loosens his grip on the rope so he can pet her. 'I wish you could stay.'  
  
'Hey, is that a cow? That's sick, mate.' Niall turns around. Two bright smiles greet him. Oh, where did they come from?  
  
'Hullo! I'm Louis,' says Apparently Louis, the one with the brown hair and the tan.  
  
'I'm Zayn,' says Apparently Zayn, the one with the black hair and the small forehead.  
  
'I'm not gonna give two strangers my name?' says Niall, adding a quick 'sorry' when their faces fall.  
  
'Well. does your cow have a name?' Zayn asks, taking a few tentative steps toward Bessie.  
  
'Bessie,' Niall says.  
  
'That's a good name,' says Louis, smiling widely, 'familiar. Reliable. Steadfast.'  
  
'Steadfast, yea!, s'a good word, Lou,' says Zayn, now stroking Bessie's ears. Bessie's blinking slows; she's calming down, some. Zayn glances at the FOR SALE sign 'round her neck. 'Ya sellin' her, then?'  
  
'Yup,' says Niall.  
  
'Well, we'll take her,' says Louis, coming to stand between Niall and Zayn. Bessie opens her eyes up some, starts rolling them around.  
  
'Can you,' Niall say, fretting, 'can you back up? Please? You're crowdin' her.'  
  
Louis and Zayn jump back as one.  
  
'Sorry,' whispers Zayn, to Bessie.  
  
'Sorry,' says Louis, to Niall, 'we were just so excited. About this cow. That we're going to buy from you.'  
  
'Well, I mean,' says Niall. '—are you sure?' God bless Bessie, but she's best at eating the neighbour's flowers and listening to him complain. What if they want to use her for nefarious purposes?  
  
'Euuhhhh. I think so?' Zayn says, dubiously. 'We should probably check, though.' He puts his hand on Louis's arse.  
  
'Ex-cuse me!' Louis says, jumping back a few steps. Zayn grins very smirkily. Louis raises his nose up, sniffs. ' _Watch_  your hands, Malik,’ he says, stiffly, then he takes out a very crumpled piece of paper from his back pocket.   
  
Niall looks at the drawings on the back. Whoever drew that alien is so cool. So cool.  
  
'… _falls in love_ …oops, went too far…ah, here we are… _comes home to mild misery_ …blah blah blah… _forced to sell animal friend_ … _encounters mysteriously cloaked figure_ …’ Louis glances down at his trackies, then at Zayn’s denims. ‘Pretty sure that’s us?’   
  
'Yea, but like, Lou,' says Zayn, folding his arms and lowering his voice, 'what're we gonna do with a cow?'  
  
Louis tilts his head at Bessie. ‘Hamburgers?’ he asks. Zayn looks at him in alarm.  
  
'No!' Niall cries.  
  
'Ok, never mind, you can keep Bessie,' Zayn says quickly. Louis shoots him a wide-eyed 'what are you _doing_ ' glare. 'Look at him, man. He's, like, upset.' Niall nods. 'Like, proper upset.' Niall…nods. 'Like, about to cry.'  
  
'I'm not cryin',' Niall says. 'Just don't eat my cow.' His stomach grumbles.

 

* * *

 

'So, you don't think it's a  _little_  morbid to be eating a beef gyro in front of a cow,’ says Louis. Zayn’s the means behind their little operation — whatever their little operation is — and Louis’s on some sort of diet, so all he’s been doing is complain ever since Zayn stopped off at that Greek place and got him and Niall some food.  
  
Zayn wipes some yoghurt from his mouth, shrugs. ‘Nah,’ he says, chewily and cheerfully. ‘How were your chips, man?’  
  
'Good,' Niall says, looking down at his now empty basket with some dismay. Bessie is attacking her own food much more slowly. Smart girl. 'S'really lucky that ya just happened to have a bucket of fresh sweet hay lyin' around.'  
  
'Yes,' says Louis, with a big gusty sigh. 'It is. Very lucky. That that happened. Say! what time is it?' Zayn grumbles something into his gyro; Niall says he doesn't know. 'Oh, is it that late already? We simply must dash—'  
  
'I don't wanna dash, man,' Zayn says, peaceably. Louis ignores him.  
  
'—it's been a pleasure meeting you, Niall. Come give me your hand, I  _have_  to shake it.’ Niall, who never actually gave his name, is reluctant to offer up any limbs instead. Louis takes his left hand and shakes it enthusiastically anyway. Then he takes off running at breakneck speed, cackling loudly. Zayn rolls his eyes, continues chewing.  
  
'Em,' says Niall, opening up his hand, 'he left this behind?' It's a large seed, gleaming dark and purple. Like something you might pick up as a weird gardening party favour, if not for the strange weight and warmth of it. Real magic feels different, he now knows.  
  
'Yea,' says Zayn, patting him on the back. In the distance, Louis is screaming for him to run. 'That's all yours. See you when you get back, yea?'

 

* * *

 

Back from where, Niall thinks, going to sleep hungry again. His mum tried her best with the leftover, leftover leftover soup, but they could all taste its..offness - they all kept glancing at Dad, back in his tiny collar, chewing happily on his wedge of cheese.  
  
Niall wakes up at dawn with a start, staring in surprise at the dirt under his fingernails — was he sleepwalking again? Or wait—he looks around his room, blearily, wondering what woke him. Does he need to piss?  
  
His mam shrieks again. Niall throws off his covers, then races downstairs. Is she ok? Is his father? Is Greg? he wonders, and then he comes to an abrupt stop, swallowed up in the deep shadow taking over the entire kitchen and some of the living room.  
  
'Jesus,' he mutters, pushing his mam gently behind himself. There's an enormous, thick green… _tree_ pushing up out of their backyard. It’s at least the width of the house, and, from what he can see, nose pressed up flat against the glass backdoor, at least twice as tall.

Grapevines, stalks of corn, tomatoes, and several kinds of peas and beans dangle from the branches like huge, heavy drops of rain; apples, aubergines, carrots, onions, potatoes and cabbage peek out of the main base like buried treasure. Bessie is happily licking at the sparkling roots.  
  
'—oh my God. Niall…is this what you were diggin' in the night?' asks his mam. 'I saw these on the Magic Shopping Channel - pantry trees!' She throws her arms around him in a burst of tears right when Greg stumbles down the stairs, Dad peeking out of his hands and sniffing at the air. 'Oh, sweetheart - you've saved us!'

 

* * *

 

Beneath the skin, the branches themselves are thick, starchy and slightly sweet — splice up the inside of one and boil it with some salt, pepper and oil, and you get a fairly decent batch of spaghetti. This is what they offer to the Housing Association representative who comes to talk to them about growing permits.  
  
'Ma'am— sirs—,' says Ms Adewale, 'oh, thank you, yes, please, do add mozzarella to mine, that looks lovely—' She shakes her head firmly, stares down fixedly at the paper before her. ' _You are to be made aware that your Pantree currently exceeds acceptable growing sizes by a factor of at least 45_.’ She cuts herself off, obligingly passes the salt to Niall’s mam when she asks for it. ‘ _Further, your upstairs neighbours have informed us that it is currently pushing up into their front yard; they are considering filing an official complaint with the city_.’  
  
'What, are you talkin' about the Paynes?' says Dad. 'The Payne  _Giants_? The bloody Paynes in our arse—’  
  
'The arse is collective, you see,' says Greg, sucking on a green bean. Mam shushes him quiet.  
  
'—who go about, stompin' round in the night and causing great big thunderstorms? I'll show them an official complaint,' says Dad. And then he begins to swear, creatively and at length.  
  
'I would suggest a face-to-face conversation,' says Ms Adewale, gratefully taking the garlic bread offered her. 'Surely this matter can all be resolved.'

 

* * *

 

They elect Niall as their representative, even though  _Greg’s_  the better climber.  
  
'Yea, but I've got uni apps,' he says, shrugging, 'and my whole working three jobs.'  
  
'I could get a job,' Niall says, for the four millionth time. 'You don't have to work so hard.'  
  
'Not a chance,' Greg says, easily, ruffling his hair. 'You've got school stuff, still.'  
  
'It's  _summer_ ,’ Niall insists, scowling and ducking his head away. ‘And you’ve got school stuff, too.’ Niall doesn’t even know if he’s going to go off to university; literally doesn’t even know if it’s worth it. He isn’t like Greg - Greg knows exactly what he wants to do, and exactly what he has to do to get it.  
  
'Hey,' says Greg, frowning, 'stop tryin' to grow up so soon.'  
  
It isn’t that Niall doesn’t like being babied; it’s more that he  _hates_  being babied. This is why he starts climbing in the middle of the night, instead of waiting the two days for the climbing instructor to reach town.  
  
'Think you're a bit ahead of schedule,' says a green-skinned boy, poking Niall awake the next morning.  
  
'Wh-! Who are you?' Niall narrows his eyes. 'Are you the spirit of the Pantree? Jesus— have we been _eatin’_  you this entire time?’ He feels sick. How can any one being be that delicious?  
  
'Oh, no, no, I'm human. This is for a role,' says the green-skinned boy. Niall stares at him. He dimples in return.  
  
'Ok,' says Niall, blinking. '—Then I'm pretty sure you're trespassing?' He adds a quick 'sorry' when the boy's face falls.

 

 


	11. o maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know those stories where a person — an author, or an artist — creates a character…and then they come to life? Zarry (x3).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Major character death, very dubious consent, melodrama

 

 

'Where were you,' Zayn says. His voice is loud, too big for the thin walls. Harry pauses at the doorway, his back to Zayn, gives his hair a quick shake — then he disappears into the bathroom without a word. The first time he did this, Zayn was speechless; he couldn't believe it. He didn't know what to do. Harry came out into the living room five minutes later, a weird look on his face.  
  
'Did you say my name?' he asked, lips unfamiliar and flat.  
  
'No,' said Zayn. He'd asked - _where were you?_  ‘I just said…hey.’  
  
'Oh,' said Harry. He smiled blankly, like Zayn had told a joke he didn't feel like laughing at; waved small. 'Hey.'  
  
After that the silences got longer and larger, till Harry wasn’t just ignoring him when he came back from the pub, he was ignoring him before he left, Saturday evening, Friday afternoon, Tuesday morning, breakfast before work, supper afterwards. Always.   
  
Constant, like a growing headache.   
  
He used to only sleep in the guest room when he was angry at Zayn; he sleeps there all the time now. His stuff’s moved, too: jackets where the detailing’s off, shoes that are slightly mismatched; a half-formed watch which, when shaken, leaks ink.  
  
The sex is—ok. Harry still comes to him but he always seems unhappy afterwards. Once he cried, even.  
  
'What's wrong,' said Zayn, alarmed.  
  
'How do I know,' Harry said, sucking in huge gasps. 'H, h, h, h.'  
  
'Hey, breathe, babe, s'ok,' Zayn murmured, rubbing his shoulders.  
  
Harry slapped his arm away; he looked well and truly angry. ‘How do I know I even  _like_  you,’ he snapped.  
  
When Harry’d first woken up, Zayn’d kissed his collarbone — a little crooked where the biro slipped — until he blinked. Smiled, tentatively.  
  
—Who are you? he’d asked.  
  
I’m Zayn, said Zayn, after a few steadying breaths. And you’re Harry.  
  
Harry grabbed the photo of them off the bedside table, shoved it in Zayn’s face. ‘ _He_  chose you, not me,’ he said, face red with tears and fury. Zayn was terrified. ‘How am I supposed to want this?’  
  
The next morning, the guest room is empty.  _Be well_ , says the note the second Harry leaves him. The sketchpad has almost 80 pages left — good enough trade for a soul only a little worn from grief. He could easily draw Harry again…only this time, draw his smiles wider, his eyes…emptier. Maybe? Focus on the times when he just smiled and. Did what Zayn said, without fuss. ‘Course those times were few and far between — he was so. So fuckin’ stubborn.   
  
So fuckin’ stupid.  
  
Zayn wipes his face, puts the sketchpad in the back of his closet, goes to make some tea. He keeps the door unlocked for the next three weeks, just in case Harry changes his mind. Then the radio lights up with news of some burglar, breaking into upscale flats in the middle of the night; he changes the security code and starts locking his door.  
  
Months pass. His next-door neighbour invites him over for drinks on New Year’s.  
  
'To another year,' she says, sighing. She's drunker than him; her husband's some football star and Zayn can tell she gets lonely. They fuck a week later; two weeks after that she moves. Harry still doesn't come back. Zayn starts going out with his co-workers when they invite him out, then goes out alone when they stop inviting him;  they think he 'may have a problem'. Who fucking asked them?  
  
He wakes up one morning in bed with three other people and doesn’t know where his body begins; doesn’t know where his body is, at all, in the mass of them.  
  
He stops going out. For about a week he doesn’t even go outside; calls in sick the first three days, and then doesn’t bother calling in at all. Ignores the fb messages, the emails, the texts, the voicemails.  
  
He’s dead, he says, tracing the thick, long scar on his calf. He’s dead and you will get through this. You will fuckin’ get through this.  
  
The next morning Harry shows up. His hair’s longer, wilder. He’d broken his glasses and never gotten a new pair. ‘I don’t need them,’ he says, restlessly, when Zayn asks. What he does need is money, and a place to stay for the night.  
  
'Do I look like a bank to you?' says Zayn. 'A b&b, d'ya think?'  
  
'—You look like the person who owes me everything,' says Harry, evenly. Zayn gives him money, fixes him dinner, airs out the guest room. He's gone the next morning; Zayn goes back in to work.  
  
He drops by once every other other month; his friends got him some papers, but they can’t pass anything more than a cursory inspection. According to the system, he is either dead or non-existent, which makes it somewhat difficult to procure gainful employment.  
  
'Shame you didn't think about the logistics before bringing me to life,' Harry says, chomping noisily on his muesli. The other Harry was a quiet eater; this one laughs when Zayn can't meet his eyes.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Zayn wakes up with a start and a pounding headache. 

Someone’s singing. Oh. He takes a few breaths, tries to steady the surge of dizziness. It’s ok. It’s just Harry. Must’ve—must’ve run out of money sooner rather than later. He sits up with a wince, flicks off the light - stares down at his palm, crusted over in blood.   
  
Fuck.   
  
He stumbles out of bed, nearly tripping over the accumulation of empty bottles.   
  
No. Fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ , please no—  
  
he comes to a still in front of his closet, half-open. The neat row of tiny boxes is knocked over. The floor in front is covered in small moons of blood. The sketchpad is out.   
  
A page is torn at the top; missing.   
  
Zayn swears.  
  
'Knock, kn-o-ock,' says Harry, sing-song. 'You awake? I made tea.'  
  
Zayn turns — Harry is stood, completely naked, in his doorway. He’s missing one nipple and at least five tattoos — his moth looks as if a bird’s been at it. His dimples are a bit too big, his mouth a little too wide.  
  
'And then,' he says, flicking his eyes up Zayn's body, 'if you're up for it — I was wondering if we could…?'  
  
Zayn swears again.  
  
Harry grins. ‘Yes, please,’ he says, making for the bed.  
  
'What? No. we're not gonna fuck,' says Zayn.

 

* * *

 

They do.

 

* * *

 

'What the fuck,' says the first— _second_  Harry. Third Harry rolls his eyes, pulls himself into Zayn’s lap. Zayn steadies him, tries to send second Harry a reassuring smile; third Harry intercepts it with a smile and a drawn-out kiss.  
  
'What is the  _matter_  with you,’ says second Harry.  
  
'I was drunk,' Zayn tries to say, but third Harry tongues his way into his mouth. Bloody Harry - he was supposed to hide in the bedroom.  
  
'Look,' says second Harry, apparently to third Harry, 'you don't have to do what he says—'  
  
Third Harry pulls off of Zayn’s mouth with a low hum. ‘Hmm. should I be like you, then?’ he says, grinning. His dimples really are something else. ‘Pretending I don’t want to?’

 

* * *

 

'You really don't have to stay here,' Zayn says, later, in bed.  
  
'Mm-hmm,' says Harry; he's playing Words With Friends against someone he met online.  
  
'I mean it,' says Zayn, 'you don't have to— like, one of my mates has an openin' at his garage, if you wanted to like. get a job? maybe save up—'  
  
'What!' says the second Harry, from the guest room. These  _thin fucking walls_. He stomps into the room - flushes at the sight of them, tangled up together. ‘And you didn’t think to mention this job to  _me_?’  
  
'You can have the job,' third Harry says, before Zayn can point out that second Harry wouldn't have accepted it. 'I don't want it.'  
  
'—Neither do I,' second Harry grits out, and then he stomps back out.  
  
'Aww,' third Harry says, unconcerned. He pouts. 'I lost.' He drops a kiss to Zayn's chin. 'Make me feel better?'

 

* * *

 

Zayn’s attempts to incorporate the third Harry into the world of the sentient end…oddly.  
  
'So, your favourite cheese is mozzarella,' he says, over a pot of boiling water. Harry snorts - Zayn turns around; at first Harry doesn't bother looking up from Zayn's mobile. He finally smiles, patient but condescending. It's a look which the first Harry didn't bring out often, and which the second Harry doesn't bring out at all.  
  
'No, it's not,' he says.  
  
Zayn blinks at him. ‘Yea, it…is,’ he says. Uncertainly.  
  
'No,' Harry repeats, 'it's not. It's  _your_  favourite cheese; I just never said anything.’  
  
It feels like the kitchen shifts an inch or two to the left. ‘—How would you know that?’ Zayn asks.  
  
'How am I here?' Harry asks, in a silly voice. Zayn's mobile buzzes. 'Can you stop talking, though? Please? I'm texting someone important.'  
  
More important than me? Zayn thinks.  
  
'The other Harry…' Zayn tries, while they're picking at their macaroni. ' _He_  didn’t remember anything.’  
  
Harry scoffs. ‘Yes, he did,’ he says. ‘He just wanted you to hover over him. Really. ask him.’

 

* * *

 

Zayn took a week’s worth of vacation time helping the second Harry settle in. He pulled out physical and digital photo albums, narrated all the old dusty places in the flat that’d seemed to be taken up with grief — the signed  _A Clockwork Orange_  that Zayn couldn’t bear to throw away, the old demic Walkman Harry’d picked up in Dublin, the small jewellery box filled with rings and chains and clip-ons. He talked until his voice grew hoarse, made up the guest bed for Harry, and was somehow still caught off-guard when Harry pulled on his wrist and said: ‘Don’t I sleep with you?’

 

* * *

 

The following week, when Zayn asks, second Harry breaks eye contact. His visits are coming more and more frequently. He doesn’t always ask for money; he always spends the night, sometimes stays an extra day, even.  
  
'What do you mean,' he mutters, staring at the half-done shopping list. Third Harry's singing in the shower.  
  
Zayn stares at him. ‘I mean…what’s your favourite kind of cheese?’ he says.  
  
'—Mozzarella,' Harry says, shiftily.  
  
'Really.' Zayn clicks his biro twice. 'So not, like. gouda.'  
  
Harry blushes. ‘Yea,’ he says, after a pause.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from the Janelle Monáe song


	12. bound 2 drabble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s something…odd going on_. Mini-sequel to [bound 2](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117368). May or may not take place in the same parallel universe as [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1333360/chapters/2779732)

 

 

There’s something…odd going on.  
  
'Odder than Lorcan getting eaten by a coat of armor?' asks Dani.  
  
'Odder than vampires storming the Pitch?' asks Harley, playing along. 'Twice?'  
  
'Odder than Myrtle starting a support group for the Unheard, Needful, Downtrod, Ectoplasm'ed And Distraught?' asks Grizzie, in a robust voice.  
  
'Odder than Pivott spiritin' all those girls away for “private dance lessons”?' asks Jordan, grinning. Dani's smile disappears at once. One day…one day Jordan's going to get his bloody ears boxed in, and Liam won't say a single word, badge be damned.  
  
'Odder than our old Defence professor holding us all  _hostage_  third year?’ asks Grizzie loudly, distractingly. She raises her knees up onto the couch and starts crawling sideways onto Harley’s lap, hands all like claws: ‘ _Give yourself over to the Liiiiight!_ ’  
  
'—You know those non-liability agreements Mcgonagall sends out every summer?' says Harley. 'I just got the point of those.'  
  
'Odder than all that, did you mean?' whispers Dani, nudging him, while the rest of them bicker about right to refuse life, magic, assistance or care; and all other kinds of awful legalese.  
  
'Maybe not quite,' says Liam, and then he nudges her back playfully until she huffs out a laugh.

 

* * *

 

There’s just…something hanging about in the air: snatches of strangely familiar maternal magic lingering about in unusual places - empty rooms that should be echoing with disuse, corridors that no one has any business hanging about in, undusty alcoves long abandoned by the house elves. Then there’s the whole business with the Prefect’s bathroom - the runes on the door have been stitched and restitched so many times that the wards are unravelling.   
  
Whoever did it did a fairly neat, albeit amateurish, job of it - Mcgonagall probably won’t notice until spring rounds.   
  
When he brings it up to Ikenga privately, after the latest Prefect meeting, he says ‘It’s probably just some horny unweds’, with all the recently acquired indifference of the very newly wed.   
  
'Ikenga,' says Liam, 'last semester,  _you_  were a horny unwed.’ It seems absurd that they’re only a few months apart in age. Liam can’t imagine being  _married_. Not even to Zayn, he thinks, blushing a bit.  
  
'And now I have seen the light, man,' Ikenga says, with a philosophical, faraway look in his eyes. 'There's more to life than, than House Points, or getting the best grades, or fighting with your roommates about them always throwing their bloody stuff on your bed, or, or watching Quidditch—'  
  
Liam stares at him in stark betrayal.  
  
'—or,' Ikenga lowers his voice, 'or ducking your head and just hoping to get by. You know? Sometimes you have to put yourself out there - make a wave or two.'  
  
'Finding out I could do Jedi mind tricks at 11 was wave enough for me, thank you,' says Liam.  
  
'Payne, if you think you're going to distract me with your absurd Muggle references,' says Ikenga, in a prim voice, 'you are absolutely correct. Now, about these Jedis - do they rap?'

 

* * *

 

Then there was the other odd thing, Liam thinks, quickly hurrying by Pince’s desk before she can scowl at him.  
  
Niall Horan is sat at a table, a book open and unattended in front of him. He is, as he has been since the start of the new semester, alone.

 

 


	13. overly ambitious bound 2 sequel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Overly ambitious [bound 2 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117368)sequel. (Also known as fake chapter 5.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mind the inaccuracies: the real Finnegan family motto ( _Malo mori quam foedari_ ) is in Latin, not Gaelic; black bun, a Hogmanay dessert, would not likely be found at a christening luncheon; Rochelle Humes has never had a crush on Aston Merrygold afaik; and Niall is not Alaia-Mai Humes's godfather.

 

 

Althea may be the apple of her uncle’s eye, but Alaia-Mai is fast shaping up to be the orange of her godfather’s.  
  
'Aren't you a clever one,' Niall coos, when Alaia kicks softly into the middle of his palm.  
  
'Niall! Support the neck!' Marvin says, and he quickly steals his daughter back. She's still a bit wary - he was, after all, the one who held her while a strange man poured cold water over her head. But a bottle of milk is hovering over his shoulder, so she goes to him readily enough.  
  
Rochelle finishes making the rounds a fifth time, yes, hullo, hullo, how do you do, thank you so much for coming, Auntie, give Miss Sylvia my dearest regards, before she deposits a dozing ‘Thea onto Niall’s lap and oof’s herself onto the seat beside him.  
  
Alaia drinks, watching with wide eyes as Marvin croons the Gold String spell over and over. ‘I reckon half of Jamaica and a third of Sierra Leone are stood in our parlor,’ says Rochelle, blankly. Niall doesn’t envy her or Marvin the next six days. Baptismal ceremonies are taxing processes, ‘specially when the families only have marital bonds connecting them. And different magics are absolute hell to deal with.  
  
His own bond to ‘Thea hums, pleased and content, in his chest: his niece is here, she is alive, she is well.  
  
'Any chance there'll be doggy bags?' he murmurs. He went through three plates before he got distracted by Cousin Clarence, who turned out to be all flirt and no follow through - any moment now he's getting up to get a fourth.  
  
Rochelle snorts. ‘ _Yes_ , I will send you home with  _all_  of it, don’t worry,’ she jokes. ‘Let it be your problem!’  
  
Marvin jolts - Niall twirls his finger to keep the Gold String turning. Alaia smiles at him around her bottle. ‘No, babe!’ Marvin whispers. ‘Mum spent forever on that black bun, you know how she gets.’  
  
Rochelle raises one eyebrow. ‘Why, yes, babe - I  _do_  know how your mother gets.’  
  
Niall figures he might as well get that fourth plate now. So he does. ‘Thea stirs at his side when he settles down next to the singing miniature of Aston Merrygold. Ha - looks like Chelly never got over that crush!  
  
'Thea blinks at his floating plate, then rubs at her eyes. As the godfather of the babe of honour, Niall can stay far past what's decent - he's probably the last person there who's not a blood relative - but his niece is clearly wiped, so they'll have to go soon. And with all these purebloods in one tiny little space, someone is destined to bring up coats of arms, ugh.   
  
He glances around. Feels like there’s 40 more people than when he last looked.   
  
 _Christ_.  
  
'Uncle Niall,' 'Thea whispers, and Niall remembers to breathe.  
  
'Yea, love, what's it,' he asks, focussing only on smoothing back her fringe.  
  
'Where's Uncle Zayn?'  
  
Niall pauses, takes a big bite of something spicy and delicious; Aston belts out something about facing your Boggart. ‘He’s still…away,’ says Niall, carefully. The three months before a male Malik gets married, he has to cloister himself away from everyone, for cleansing and self-knowledge and all kinds of shit. And once he finally gets married, he’s basically never allowed to leave his house again without his wife.  
  
'Thea pouts. 'I miss him,' she says.  
  
Niall laughs. ‘Yea. Me too.’

 

* * *

 

Get a bunch of purebloods in a room, no matter the occasion, and eventually they’ll arrive at the subject of coats of arms. It’s brilliant; it’s disgusting. Every bloody time. Inches from an  _Incendio_ 'ed casket, you'll hear, '—and that's why we're called Everloyal.  _Steadfast, faithful and true_. Merlin  _Him_ self told us to wear purple and puce, you know.’ Well, pity Merlin had such poor taste!   
  
The symbols themselves are sacred; it’s pretty bad taste to speak of those. Everything else, unfortunately, is fair game.  
  
It was the same thing on the Hogwarts Express - playdates were one thing, their parents would’ve told them that kind of sussing out was rude, the bloody hypocrites - but all those kids playing meet and greet and how d’ya do?, someone was bound to bring it up. Niall’s first year away from family, Grizelda Orin, great-great-great-great-great granddaughter of a mermaid, was that Someone. After her, Niall really couldn’t be arsed to keep track - but Grizzie did it first, and Grizzie did it best.  
  
When the Cart rolled by, she held up her wand and said, ‘ _Wingarrrdium Leviooosa_ ' - and a tiny packet of Braised Button Bollies floated smoothly over to her lap. She flushed red with pride, beamed 'round at them all, and said: ' _Above all: grace_.’  
  
The attendant floated the Bollies back and said: ‘You have to pay for that.’  
  
Of course, everyone started talking at once, clambering verbally over Grizzie to talk about the time a dying King Arthur asked their distant ancestor if they would but watch the waters, and that’s why they went by Clearwater, and only wore blue, and blah blah blah. Niall sat it out and scooted closer to Kylie Thomas, who was looking frizzled and pretty and very interesting.  
  
'What're you drawing?' he asked. She shrugged; at the time he didn't understand the gesture, but also he didn't understand much about girls, so he scooted a little closer to look at her sketchpad.  
  
On his other side, Sibeal kept elbowing both of her brothers until Riordan announced, in stilted Gaelic, the Finnegan family motto: ‘they that clear the path.’ Someone snorted at his pronunciation, and that’s when it could’ve started getting nasty.   
  
‘ _Is fearr Gaeilge briste, na Bearla cliste_ ,’ Niall said, loudly, and everybody but the triplets shot him startled glances.  
  
'What's  _that_  supposed to mean?’ asked Louis Austin, Resident Snorter.   
  
'Dunno,' he said, grinning, and then, when Sibeal started laughing, added, 'hey, look at this!' At that point he was supposed to dazzle everybody (but mostly Kiley) with an air painting spell Greg had showed him over the summer. What ended up happening was he got blue paint all over his hands, red paint all over Clive Clearwater's shoes, and yellow paint all over Kiley's hair. In doing so, he neatly ruined any and all of his chances with her for almost four years.   
  
But he got to meet Zayn, so it all worked out, in the end.

 

* * *

 

—sort of.

 

* * *

 

Zayn told him about his family’s coat of arms tons of times, but Niall really only listened the once. Growing up sheltered and surrounded by family, Zayn had little experience with pithy pureblood bragging; their first night in the dorms he spent the whole time, whispering across the gap between their two beds, telling Niall the entire history of the House of Malik. Niall liked listening when it was private; he liked listening when it was Zayn. (He liked listening when it was a one time thing!)  
  
Dark blue black was their colour, Zayn said, because Allah pulled them up from the sea. Their family motto was less of a motto and more of a directive; it took Zayn a couple of minutes to say it in its original language, and Niall bit his tongue when he tried to repeat it.  
  
'What's it mean?' he asked, giving it up.  
  
Zayn flushed and said: ‘Oh, I’ll probably mistranslate, I’m not fluent yet…but Doniya is!, Doniya’s brilliant with languages.’ He smiled - and then he remembered where she was, and then he remembered where he was, and he frowned.   
  
Niall reached out and tangled their fingers together. ‘Just try, c’mon,’ he whispered, and he squeezed hard.  
  
Zayn blinked and furrowed his brow - and then his gaze went fuzzy. He thought and thought and thought, and Niall waited and waited and waited, drifting closer and closer to sleep.   
  
By the time Zayn squeezed his hand back, the sun was nearly up. He opened his eyes - the first thing he saw was Zayn’s smile. It was nice; it took up everything in the room. Niall grinned back without thinking, and he didn’t actually remember why they were staring at each other until Zayn spoke:  
  
’ _Those who carry the name will bear it_.’

 

* * *

 

And, apparently, those who won’t bear it, won’t be allowed to carry it anymore.

 

* * *

 

He wakes up the morning of Zayn’s wedding to find a stranger on the other side of his wards.  
  
Bad luck, amongst the Maliks, for the groom to be seen by any but the bride; still Zayn is stood there shivering, grey-faced in his dress robes, crisp and handsome and dark dark blue.   
  
'Wha— why didn't you come in, you idiot?' Niall asks, bewildered. He'd been expecting an intruder; failing that, the neighbourhood Kneazle. Niall hasn't seen Zayn in ages; the wards on his flat have been open to him for even longer.  
  
'I tried,' says Zayn, voice trembling, and that's when Niall notices that his side is soaked in blood. 'Your wards didn't recognise me.'

 

* * *

 

The Healers at St Mungo’s don’t recognise Zayn either. His Wand is listed as Missing, Stolen,  _and_ Unregistered, and it’s only because Niall convinces them it’s his spare — ‘always acts up,’ he laughs, shakily, while three feet away his best mate’s bleeding out — that he’s able to get it back. The Healer, some no-name halver from Orsey, binds Zayn up hastily, carelessly, turns his gaze swinging back to Niall every chance he can get. 

'Listen, is there a fireplace around here?' Niall asks, when the Healer says, oh the Hanging Gardens of Horan are so delightful!, I do wish I'd get a weekend off to see them. 'I need to speak to Tricia Malik, it's a bit of an emergency.'  
  
The Healer blinks, impressed, says, oh my, you know the Maliks? That Doniya of theirs is so lovely, oh! and the youngers, too. Shame they never had that son.

 

* * *

 

It takes five days for Zayn to figure it out; thoughts and theories that came to him easily before, struggle at his lips. His magic is sluggish to come, and snappish when it goes. Certain spells he can’t remember at all. He gets tension headaches, can’t read the day straight, breaks his glasses in a fit on the sixth day, and when he bends his head over, black hair sweeping over the hands he puts to his face, Niall’s mind goes blank for a moment and he thinks, hang on, he’s fit, how’d he get in here?

 

* * *

 

'Calum's Whiplash Theory,' Zayn tells him, bleakly, the morning of the seventh day. Niall keeps their hands tight together, tells himself, this is Zayn, second or, or thirdborne of the house of Malu—, Male—, Mala—…  
  
Everyone knows there’s no getting out of an Unbreakable Vow.  
  
It’s not about morality or your word. All spells are contracts, of a sort - most have a point of egress, a _Finite Incantatem_ , a way of reversal.   
  
Bonds are different. You put will and force and magic into a bond, and you may not get the result you want, but you will always get  _something_  in return.  
  
Normally, of course, you try to break an Unbreakable Vow, the reverb comes back and cuts you out of existence: a force met with no resistance goes clear through.

But if, for example, you were to make a Vow (a betrothal, say) on your family name — the name of one of the oldest semi-sentient Houses left in Britain, the name of one of the last Houses able to disinherit heirs at will — and then were to try to break that Vow—   
  
'The House disinherits you,' says Zayn, 'and the Vow erases you.'

 

* * *

 

'How come I can remember you?' Niall asks. The night before he'd heard Zayn shifting on the couch and had been halfway down the hallway, wand raised, before he'd remembered.

It’s only being faced with him and forced to see him that he’s able to hold on.  
  
Zayn squeezes his hand, hard. ‘You won’t,’ he says, ‘you just have more to forget.’

 

* * *

 

The Daily Prophet runs a bewildered editorial about how Mage Yaser Malik, sedate academic, has gone barking mad, waiting out in the snow in heavy cloaks, wifeless, begging anyone who’ll stop, please help me, I’ve lost something important, no, I don’t know what it looks like, no, I don’t remember what it’s called, please help me, please.

It’s the oldest pureblood families which are the oddest, Niall thinks, turning the page; all that in-breeding.

 

 


	14. on the radio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Is there a pra—protocol for dedicating a song to somebody?' Harry asks_. Zayn+Harry, Gryles.

 

 

'Is there a pra—protocol for dedicating a song to somebody?' Harry asks, shoving the school directory back to the bottom of his desk drawer. Everything still feels a bit lovely and warm. He presses his thumb down hard on his knee to focus himself.

There’s a silence, then a tiny bit of a sigh at the other end.

'Nah, mate, we don't do that.'

'But I'm—wait, what's your name?'

'…Zayn.'

'Oh, hullo, then, Zayn. Should I call you…DJ Zayn?'

Silence. Then: ‘Just Zayn is fine.’

'Just Zayn, hmm,' Harry says, and thinks of Nick's eyes, his lips; the sound of his laugh. 'I've fallen in love, you know.' He covers half of his face with his free hand and breathes in deeply. Still smells like Nick. (Which's a bit gross, actually, when he thinks about it.)

'Have you,' says Just Zayn, sounding a little less uninterested.

'Head oh-ver,' he says brightly. ”ve you ever been in love?'

'Have I ever been in what?'

'Have you,' Harry says, 'Ever been. In love.'

A small sigh. ‘U——h. just once.’

Harry tilts back in his chair carefully, arranging himself around the twinge in his lower back. ‘Just once, Just Zayn?’

Just Zayn laughs a little, awkwardly. He has a nice fake laugh, though, raspy and low, curling through the line in a burst of static. ‘Hm, yea. just once.’

The song in the background changes. Nick would probably hate it. Nick hates everything on the radio, though. Ha. ‘Who’s this?’

There’s a quiet fumbling clatter. ‘Sorry, what?’

'This song, who sings it?'

'It's Kelis.'

'Ke-lis, huh.' He doesn't recognise the name.

'Yeah,  _Kelis_ ,’ Just Zayn says, sounding a little defensive, somehow. ‘She’s a visionary, you know.’

'Sure, love her,' Harry says, feeling a deep impatience settle over him. 'Hey, could you play me “Halo”?'

'Euhh—'

'Please?' says Harry, lowering his voice. 'As a favour?'

'But we don't…know each other,' says Just Zayn, almost as if it were a question.

'Well, I'm Harry,' says Harry, 'and we've got loads in common, actually. You like Belice—'

‘ _Ke_ -lis.’

'—Kelis, yea, 'course,' says Harry. 'You like her, I do too. You've been in love, I  _am_  in love. And we’re both—just, incredibly giving souls.’

A silence. ‘Giving, huh,’ says Just Zayn.

Harry swallows a laugh. ‘Oh, to a fault.’

 

 


	15. red herring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Zayn makes a complicated face - walks over to the little fence and row of bins separating their lawns. ‘Can I come up?’_ Ziall. UST. Former kid detectives. Role reversal, AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Underage, off-screen power differential, dubious consent, inappropriate student-teacher relationship.

 

 

Niall’s smoking out his window late late at night when Zayn gets dropped off by Danny. He’s probably the last in their year to not have a license, Niall figures.

He lets ash drop down below first, and then his entire fag second when Zayn turns his head and stares straight up at him.

‘ _Wh-wwh_ ,’ he whistles.

Niall blinks.  _'F-fh,_ ' his lips are too dry, and the ring pulls a little, ' _fhhh_.’

Zayn makes a complicated face - walks over to the little fence and row of bins separating their lawns. ‘Can I come up?’

'Uh.' Niall glances at his room: it is a mess. And, now that he takes a whiff, it smells of weed and marathon jerk-off sessions. Zayn'll prolly faint of horror. 'Sure.'

Niall can tell Zayn’s cataloguing the differences in the way that he peers around the room after he’s climbed through the window. Greg’s old mattress swapped out for one of his own; his mam’s used laptop prominently on display; the posters he picked up from the record shop covering the walls.

He tries to hold himself loose and relaxed when Zayn turns that same gaze on him.

'Didn't know you'd got so many tattoos,' says Zayn. He's still whispering.

'Yea, well.' Niall shrugs, feeling itchy and anxious. He wants to change into a proper shirt. 'What's up?'

Zayn breaks his gaze, runs a hand up the sides of his throat like he’s clearing it manually. He mumbles something.

'What?' Niall says, pulling his tank off. He reaches for a black tee, pauses in putting it on when Zayn rakes his eyes up his chest.

Zayn looks, and keeps looking. ‘I, ah. I think Mr Fuller’s gonna hurt someone,’ he says. ‘A student.’

'Mr Fuller,' says Niall, slowly. 'Mr Fuller, the new coach?'

Zayn smiles faintly - he looks tired. Probably all that late-night revising he’s been doing recently. ‘That’s the one.’ He sits down at Niall’s computer without being asked. ‘Want me to 2Q it?’

 _How do you know? How can you prove it?_  2 questions Niall hasn’t thought of seriously in years.

'Uhhh,' he pulls on his tee, sits down on his bed, 'sure, yea. Go for it.'

'Alright, well. you know how everyone's always on about — oh, he's so fit, I'd give him one?' Zayn asks. Niall shrug-nods - Mr Fuller really is fit. 'Well. I think—I mean,  _I’ve got reason to believe_  someone really did give him one. And threatened to tell the school about it.’ Alright, well. That does sound like something a married teacher might hurt a female student over.

'S'not really the same thing as knowin', though, ey?' says Niall. 'So that's a null for the first.'

'Alright, well, um.' Zayn stretches his legs out, rolls backwards a bit, lowers his gaze. 'For the second, then - here.'

Niall takes the wee little mobile Zayn’s dug out of his pocket. It’s warm - he must’ve been carrying it around. He presses the main button but— ‘there’s a lock screen,’ he says. Zayn takes it back, presses a couple of buttons with ease, unlocks it for him.

'These are, um,' Zayn mumbles, fingers tight around the phone, 'texts. between the student and Mr Fuller.'

Niall takes it back, presses through the inbox, going quickly backwards.  _dont do something we’ll both regret_ ,  _I’m sorry it had to end this way_ , _i think about u all the time_ , _Anytime you need someone to talk to, I’ll be here :)_

'And where'd you get this from?' Zayn doesn't answer, just rolls back and forth a little, mostly in place. 'Zayn?'

'Well, um,' says Zayn, still not looking up at him. 'It's. It's mine.'

 

 


	16. untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first time it happened more or less by accident._ Zayn+Harry. AU.

 

 

 Zayn Malik.

                              University Student. Librarian’s Assistant (Part-time).

                 Age: 19.

                                                                                                                             Likes: autumn. Boris (his dog).

                      Dislikes: early morning lectures. editing.

                                                                                              Hobbies: sticking to a routine.

The man outside the station is sat in his regular place. In the three years Zayn’s been taking this route, he’s never once missed a Thursday afternoon. His face? As rubbery as ever.

Voices come out as silvery smoke: ‘Please, mum—’ A trembling hand reaches out. The woman in front of Zayn makes the mistake of pausing, just slightly. Zayn turns up his music and walks around them, staring straight ahead. If he had money to spare—

No, if he’s being honest, he’ll never have money to spare, really. Not for someone like— _Ow_.

'Oh, sorry, mate,' says his assailant, patting him down roughly, 'in a bit of a hurry!'

'Watch it,' Zayn mumbles, half-heartedly, but the kid's already disappeared into the crowd.

It’s cold but the police are about — some wayward public school kid got mugged about a month ago and the cops are still punishing them all for it — so Zayn keeps his hoodie and his eyes down until he spots Danny’s car. Ant’s in the passenger seat, as usual, so Zayn tosses his stuff in the boot and climbs in back.

'How was the commute?' Danny asks, as he does every Thursday afternoon. Zayn's answer's always the same: ' _Long_.’ Ant laughs, turns down the radio, and Zayn begins to relax.

The minute they’re out of sight of the cops, Zayn undoes his seatbelt and stretches out. He listens to Ant and Danny go back and forth about what they’re going to eat. He makes sure to grunt here or there, so they don’t suspect him of not paying attention (though his input doesn’t really matter - they always go to the place down the road, anyway).

He slowly falls asleep, pressed up against the warm window.

 

* * *

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                              Harry Styles.

          University Student. Professional Layabout (Full-time).

                                                                                                                               Age: 17.

                                                                                                                                               Likes: people watching. sex.

Dislikes: conflict. sweetened tea.  
  
                                                            Hobbies: reverse pick-pocketing.

The first time it happened more or less by accident. Essentially what happened was - well, he got mugged. Possibly it could’ve been avoided if he hadn’t gotten off at the wrong stop in a bad part of town and wandered down a dubious-looking side alley in search of signal. Gem always says he’s got his head in the clouds; she’d been the one who’d picked him up outside a miserable little hole in the wall curry place down the road (the owner had chased him outside with a ‘Move, move!’ when he’d said he didn’t have any money), no questions or recriminations.

Of course, she did phone their mum overnight and force him to go file a police report with them the next morning. Harry kept it vague on purpose — ‘everything just happened so quickly,’ he whispered, carding his hand through his hair; the bull-faced constable who took his statement nodded sympathetically — and afterwards went home with his mum, locked his bedroom door and stared, for the thousandth time, at the ID his mugger had dropped.   
  
                                                                                                                                 Jeremy Llewellyn.

                                                  Dislocated Worker. Mugger. (Part-time.)   
  
                                                                                                                       Age: 54.

                                          Race: White.

                       Hair: Brown

                                                                                             Eyes: Brown.

Knife: Small.

'It's hard out here, mate,' Jeremy Llewellyn'd said, and his hands had shook so badly it'd looked like he was about to slash his wrists. 'And l-life's too short for you to die over this.'

Harry could’ve punched him in the face and made a clean escape, probably. Lucy had taught him that much. Really, he’d only felt scared afterwards. At the time he’d felt more incredulous than anything else. He was on his way to break up with his girlfriend; he didn’t  _need_  this.

But then Jeremy Llewellyn had said: ‘A-anyway, you can afford it, can’t you?'

 

* * *

 

In the end: they go to the place down the road.

Danny and Ant are short a fiver (they buy the food on Thursdays; he buys the weed on Saturdays) so Zayn digs into the pockets of his jeans for his wallet. It’s not a problem - yea, he’s down to his last fifteen quid but he’s supposed to get paid…this…Friday.

'Whoa,' whispers Ant, staring at the proper thick wad of notes Zayn's never seen before, in the shiny black wallet Zayn's also never seen before, 'new job, bro?'

Danny’s eyebrows want to know if Zayn has become even more directly involved in the consumption of marijuana?

'This isn't mine,' he says, weakly (Mrs Amir waves them to the side with an impatient 'move, move', takes another customer's order), 'my wallet's not—this isn't mine?'

A card slips out from between two crisp £50 pound notes.

‘ _If found_ ,’ reads Danny, brow still heavy with confusion _, ‘please do not try to return !! this *isn’t* drug money or anything (it sounds like it’s drug money. it’s really not !!)_. Smiley face, ecks ecks.’

'Well,' says Ant, after a pause, 'I guess dinner's on you tonight.'

 

 


	17. sky is tumbling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _'Look, I don't want to fight about this,' said Liam._ Louis-centric; Alien prince!Harry AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : Nonconsensual memory + body modification.

 

 

'Look, I don't want to fight about this,' said Liam.  
'We're not fighting,' said Louis. 'Haz, does it look like we're fighting?'  
Harry was stood in front of the kitchen window, peering through the frilly curtains. ‘I think that star is getting bigger.’  
'See?' said Louis, flopping onto the couch. 'The star's getting bigger - so we're not fighting.'

'That doesn't  _make_  sense,’ said Liam. ‘—Just tell me where you hid the biscuits.’ Louis started picking at his toenails. ‘A little help here, Niall?’  
'Sorry, mate,' said Niall, turning up the telly. 'My hands are tied - the star's gettin' bigger, can't get involved.'  
'Hey,' said Harry, frowning. 'Stop mocking me.'  
'No one's mocking you, Haz,' soothed Louis, 'so shut up about  _mocking_  him, Liam.’  
'I'm not mocking him!' said Liam. 'I just want to know where you hid the biscuits!'

'I hid them in my  _mouth_ ,’ said Louis, nastily, ‘and they were  _delicious_.’  
'I didn't even have one!' said Liam. 'And they were a gift from  _my_  dad.’  
'Eh, they were ok,' said Niall. 'I can see where he was going with the nutmeg an' all, but personally—' He realised his tactical error only when Liam turned his glare on him - he cleared his throat and turned the telly up again.

'It's getting kind of loud in here,' said Harry, now two rooms away from the window, tugging on his jacket. 'I'm going outside. To think.'  
'You're very strange,' said Louis. 'Can't you think in your own flat?'  
'He's not  _strange_ ,’ said Liam. ‘Haz, you’re not strange.’  
'You are, a bit,' said Niall, ever the middle ground.

'Thank you,' said Harry, running a hand over the doorframe. He did this from time to time: examined inanimate objects for hostile energy. He never talked about his parents; Louis suspected they were hippies. 'Ok, see you in few.'

A chorus of bye’s followed him out into the hallway.

'Niall, change the channel,' said Louis, after a minute or so of feigning interest in the media proceedings. He'd already seen this episode.  
Niall agreeably changed the channel — and then he immediately changed it back.

'Niall, stop being so literal,' said Louis, sighing, 'Liam, steal the remote from Niall.'  
Liam pursed his lips, stared straight ahead.  
'Oh, I see, so you're ignoring me, is that it?' said Louis. 'Well, good - I wouldn't want you to feel bad about me ignoring you.'  
'What're you ignoring me for!' said Liam.  
'Ha!' said Louis. Liam scowled, and turned his focus back onto the telly.  
'I don't see why  _I’m_  the only one being punished,’ grumbled Louis, a little while later, ‘Niall ate some, too.’  
”S’true, mate,’ said Niall, shrugging, ‘fair’s fair.’ He handed Liam the remote.  
’ _Thank_  you,’ said Louis, reaching for it. Liam swatted his hand away; Louis swatted him in the face. Liam tossed the remote back to Niall and wallopped Louis in the stomach; Louis kicked him in the crotch, rolled them off the couch and onto the floor so he was on top, raised and pointed two of his fingers, aimed them at Liam’s nostrils—

the kitchen window exploded.

 

* * *

 

When he came to, Harry was stood over him with a pleased expression, dripping mud. Distantly, Louis objected to being dripped on (or dripped on-ish) - he couldn’t quite find the words to express himself. Somewhere, he heard a crackling, electrical noise. A quick glance around showed that the power was still out - he could see Niall in his periphery but he couldn’t turn his head to see why he wasn’t moving.

'What's,' he said, 'what's happened?' He couldn't feel his toes. His feet. His legs. That was not good - he had a game on Friday, that was—that was really not good.

'Well, you've almost died, but that's ok,' said Harry. 'Zayn'll fix you.'

'Kind of busy at the moment,' said a strange voice. A third person moved into view, and it was then that Louis saw that he was, impossibly, floating Liam's still and silent body nearby. Louis tried to kick out at him; couldn't move an inch.

'Haz,' he said, panicking, 'Haz, what's going on? I can't move.'

'Sh, sh,' said Harry, smoothing a hand over his head. Louis felt something cold and metallic push into his ear. Suddenly his body was alight with pain.

'What's that,' Louis said, not understanding why his body wouldn't obey him. 'Haz, stop, that hurts.'

'Calm down,' said Harry, and his words had this slow, slurry edge to them. Louis felt his eyelids pushing down, a wave of silence shoving into his throat. 'It's ok, it's ohh _ggnhh_ —’

 

* * *

 

He awoke to Liam sitting down on him. Instinct took over: he punched him in the face.

'Ah, that's alright, Lou,' said Liam, dodging his fist happily. 'I already found the biscuits. The war is over.'

But Louis’d eaten them all. ‘But I ate them all,’ said Louis, blinking more fully awake. He sat up slowly - his body allowed it, let him look around, too: the lights were on, and his room looked no more messy than usual.

It smelled like Niall was cooking.

'Sure you did,' said Liam, beaming. 'I just came by to tell you to hurry out: Zayn's cooking, and you know how Harry gets.'

Louis chuckled before he really knew why. Who the fuck was Zayn. ‘Right,’ he said, still panicking. ‘Be out in a bit!’

 

 


	18. shines so sincere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Everyone knows Niall will do_ anything _the Tommo says_. Ziall. AU.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings** : references to dubious consent/painful sex. Could be read as underage? Also: (references to) bullying

 

 

Zayn may not’ve had many friends about since the Riachs’d moved - but that didn’t mean he was totally oblivious.  
  
'Yea, alright,' he said.  
  
Niall stared at him blankly, smile fading fast. ‘We— we— what?’  
  
'We can go to the dance together, man, I don't care.' Zayn shrugged. Some sort of prank, he'd heard Ari Templeton whisper, during study hall; everyone knows Niall will do  _anything_  the Tommo says.  
  
'Whh—,' said Niall. 'We—. Y—. 'Scuse'm—!' And then he dashed off, out of the cafeteria.  
  
Nearby tables watched Zayn very closely, and would later generate a lot of commentary about his alternative lifestyle based off of the way he handled his macaroni and cheese.

 

* * *

 

'Okay!' said Niall, after school, madly out of breath, attempting a jump over the fence. 'Louis said it's  _ohJesusChrist_.’  
  
Zayn crouched down to where Niall was now rolling around on the ground, clutching his knee. ‘You okay, mate?’  
  
'Yup!' said Niall, painfully, 'yup, yup. Just—spendin' time. Spendin' time with my knee.'  
  
Zayn sat down on the pavement beside him. ‘Want me to get you some ice?’ He wouldn’t even know where to go to get some - the school nurse always peaced the fuck out at lunch and never came back.  
  
'Nah,' said Niall. His teeth didn't look quite as gritted as before. 'Should be fine in a sec.'  
  
Zayn leaned back against the wall of the school and shut his eyes. Five minutes passed. When he opened his eyes again, Niall was sat up, staring at him.  
  
He swallowed. ‘I think your—I think you missed your bus.’  
  
Zayn shrugged. ‘You can drive me.’

 

* * *

 

'This isn't my house,' Zayn observed.  
  
'You never gave me your address,' said Niall. This was true; Zayn'd just thought he looked like he knew where he was going. Which now made a lot more sense…considering he'd been driving to his own house.  
  
'So. My parents aren't home.' Niall trailed off, tapping the steering wheel with his thumbs. His cheeks were blaring red. Zayn wondered if he really would do anything for a prank. For Louis.  
  
'Cool, man. What d'ya wanna watch?' Zayn said, giving him an out.

 

* * *

 

Clearly Niall didn’t know what an out was: he chose gay porn.  
  
'Ermmm,' Niall said. The black haired bloke yelped in what was probably supposed to be pleasure, but actually looked a lot like pain. 'Ermmmm.'  
  
Zayn untilted his head. ‘Do you’ve any snacks?’  
  
'Snacks!' Niall leapt up. 'My bad, I can—go do that. Get that. Get those.' He limped very quickly out of the room.  
  
As soon as he was gone, Zayn leaned his head back against the wall and breathed in deep.   
  
He could do this. He would be fine. It wasn’t a big deal. It was just a little joke.

 

* * *

 

Niall brought him a handful of biscuits, some grapes, half of a clementine, some buttered toast, and some lukewarm green tea. He spread it all out very artistically on a wide blue and white plate. (He held the tea in his hand.)  
  
'So we were outta— Me mam just had a— sorry, didja want sugar? cream? Sandwich? I can run out and pick somethin' up, if you prefer,' Niall said. He got out of breath pretty easily.  
  
'Nah, this is sick, mate, thanks,' said Zayn, popping a grape into his mouth. He nodded at Niall's laptop. 'I think they've finished, though, like, when you were gone.' Entire continents could've sunk in all the cum that'd been produced.  
  
'Oh. Shame,' said Niall, flatly, regarding the credits with obvious disinterest. Zayn hid his smile.  
  
'We can replay it, if you like?' he said.  
  
'Nah! nah, nope,' said Niall, flapping his hand about. 'I've already seen it—so many times.  _Fwh-h-hh_.  _So_ many times, ha ha.’  
  
'Okay, well,' Zayn blinked slowly up at him. Grinned. 'What'd you wanna do next?'  
  
Niall went red.

 

* * *

 

—Which was (apparently) code for ‘quietly doing homework on opposite ends of the room for the rest of the evening’.  
  
Niall drove him home when his older brother got in — who, oddly, seemed very amused at the sight of Zayn; maybe he was in on it — and parked and re-parked in front of Zayn’s house about a hundred times.  
  
'I think it's straight enough,' said Zayn, after about 10 minutes of this.  
  
'Ha! ha! Straight e—' Niall started guffawing. On one hand, his laughter was silly and infectious; on the other, he was a prick. So Zayn just smiled faintly.  
  
’ _So_ ,’ Niall said, clearing his throat. He kept tapping the steering wheel. ‘It was, erm, it was really nice hangin’ out with ya. Absolutely—just. Brilliant. And. Very. Eh, that, yea.’ He was blushing all the way down to his neck.  
  
Zayn undid his buckle, leaned across the seat, and kissed him.

So what if Zayn’d had a crush on him for three years. So what if he got his kicks making fun of the gay kid. Fuck him.  _Fuck_  him.  
  
'Oh  _Christ_ , fuck me,’ Niall moaned, at which point Zayn realised he’d climbed over the gearshift and into Niall’s lap. _In front of his house_.  
  
Zayn blinked. Removed his lips from Niall’s neck. Let himself out on the driver’s side. ‘Can you pass me my bag,’ he said. The goal was to be cool and unaffected - but then Niall’s mouth looked so very— _very._ So Zayn leaned down into his open window and kissed him a little more.  
  
Niall was the one who broke the kiss this time - he didn’t say anything, just stared up at Zayn, breathing in and out harshly.

Bet you weren’t expecting  _that_ , thought Zayn, with a vicious sense of satisfaction. He tried to ignore the fact that he hadn’t been expecting it either, really.  
  
'So.' he said, staring at Niall's bottom lip. '—See you.'

Niall’s bottom lip moved; Zayn had no idea what he’d said.

He turned on his heel, went into his house, locked the upstairs bathroom and very coolly and unaffectedly jerked off in the shower.  
  
God. Tomorrow was gonna be shit.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from Bobby Hebb’s “Sunny”


	19. the kept woman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Liam pays for everything_. c!f!Zayn/Liam, c!f!Zayn+Harry. Very AU: kidfic, cisswap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. **Warnings** : Islamophobia, blasphemy?, racism, age difference, _power differential_ (power imbalance), dubious consent, controlling behavior, _rough/unsafe sex_ , miscarriage, infidelity, _past abuse_ , _brutal background hate crimes_ , _possibly triggering background violence_ , minor character death, historical allusions + inaccuracies, vomiting (not related to an eating disorder), overly precocious child  
> II. Present tense begins in '11; Zayn is born in '82, Harry in '93. Liam is older than them both.

 

 

Children are more observant than you think.  
  
After Liam bundles himself out into the snow, Bisma tugs on Zayn’s sleeve. ‘Mummy,’ she whispers. ‘Mummy.’  
  
'Hm? Yes, love?' says Zayn, still staring off out the window. Liam's already driven away; she can't even see his tail lights. Bisma tugs on Zayn's sleeve until she looks down at her - and then she smiles, like she's got a big secret.  
  
'You're not a real mummy,' she says.  
  
Zayn feels her heart drop. ‘Bisma,’ she says, and she crouches down. ‘Bisma, why would you say that?’  
  
Bisma’s smile has disappeared; she looks uncertain. ‘Mummy, it’s ok,’ she says, patting Zayn’s shoulder. ‘I’m not real, either.’  
  
Zayn’s breath catches. She smooths Bisma’s hair back, tries out a smile. ‘Bis…can you tell me what you mean?’  
  
Bisma’s face brightens. ‘Well, Daddy is always real,’ she explains. ‘And when he’s here, we’re real, too.’

 

* * *

 

Liam pays for everything. He pays the mortgage, he pays the gas & electric, he pays the car note, he pays for the phone, he pays for Bisma’s piano lessons, he pays for Zayn’s gym membership, he pays for surprise birthday parties, he pays for trips to the seaside, he pays for romantic evenings out, he pays for babysitters for the romantic evenings out, for sessions at the salon, for Sundays at the spa, for shampoo, for conditioner, for dresses and flashy jewellery, for knickers, perfume, lingerie and lube.  
  
He doesn’t pay for condoms.

 

* * *

 

Zayn called his house once. From a little burner she’d saved from her shelter days. Laura picked up so immediately, she was startled.  
  
'Sorry, I think we got disconnected,' she said, laughing.  
  
Zayn didn’t say anything.  
  
'—Hullo?' said Laura. 'Kevvy, are you there?'  
  
Liam’d complained about a Kevin once — his wife’s boss, who always kept her late. I think he’s got de- _signs_ , he said one night, rubbing Zayn’s lower back.  
  
Ooh, designs, laughed Zayn. I’m not sure I like the sound of that.  
  
Let him have designs, Liam said, and something in his voice made Zayn look up. Let him have her. And then I can finally leave that miserable house. He kissed her shoulder. And come home to you.  
  
'—Liam?' Laura breathed.  
  
Zayn hung up.

 

* * *

 

Don’t believe them: they never leave.

 

* * *

 

Her new neighbour is irritating as fuck. He’s some pop star somewhere — a young Mick Jagger, according to some — but the first time Zayn ever heard of him was when his name was screamed through a mic at 3 in the morning.  
  
'Give it up for Harry Styles!' A small roar of approval.  
  
Bisma woke up and started crying; of course Zayn was furious. Liam wasn’t there, so she had to go stomping over in just a thin little robe. She looked hideous, probably. She fussed with her hair and tried to look charming when some red-eyed wanker opened the door. He had mistletoe taped to his forehead.  
  
'Are you Harry Styles?' she said, breathily. Had to get through the door somehow.  
  
'No,' said Red-eye, unimpressed. Zayn suddenly felt embarrassed; she was pretty for her age, but she'd never really gotten her figure back after Bisma. Probably he could tell how old she was.  
  
'Well, can you take me to him, please?' she said, wrapping her robe tighter around herself.  
  
Red-eye led her through crowds of people, singing and grinding and happy and young. The heat was on full blast, and at least one person had decided to forgo a shower; it smelled like hell.  
  
Red-eye finally came to a stop in front of what Zayn hoped was the bathroom, where, through the door, someone could be heard retching heartily.  
  
'Haz,' called Red-eye, 'stripper's here.'  
  
'Ey, ' _scuse_  me, I’m not—’ she said, but Red-eye shrugged her off and disappeared back into the fray. Cheeky cunt.  
  
The door banged open: a short girl with vomit and The Pixies on her shirt stumbled out. She looked like a trendy zombie elf.  
  
'Schnapps,' she rasped, shaking her Santa's hat. 'Schnapps.'  
  
In the bathroom, a tall boy was glancing down at the splashes of vomit with apparent dismay. This, apparently, was Harry Styles. He looked up, grinned when he saw Zayn stood there. His eyes were very big.  
  
'Hosting is a messy business,' he said. He quirked his eyebrow, ran his eyes up her body a bit dubiously. 'You don't think you're a bit overdressed?'  
  
Zayn raised herself up to her full height. ‘I’m not a bloody stripper,’ she said, sharply. ‘I live next door.’  
  
Harry Styles’s eyes bugged out, made him look even more like a frog. ‘Oh,’ he said, blinking. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry—oh, I’m really, very sorry, hold on, please.’  
  
Zayn blinked as he brushed past her. She’d been expecting more resistance. Wrong-footed, she let her indignation peter out. By the time Harry Styles finally made it to the back of the room — 15 bloody minutes later — it had flared back up again.  
  
When the music turned off, everyone but Zayn very loudly made their displeasure known. Where were their  _parents_ , she thought, and then she looked down and realised that she was only wearing one slipper.  
  
And also that Bis was sat up in bed all alone, waiting for her.  
  
'Sorry, everyone,' said Harry Styles, stood on the little ledge in front of the huge fireplace. 'After-afterparty's over.' A huge collective groan. 'But Nick has graciously volunteered to host the after-after-afterparty at his.' A choked yelp, from somewhere. Harry Styles grinned, slowly. 'See you there.'  
  
He hopped back down, chatted with 10 more people before finally making his way over to Zayn. ‘You’re welcome to come, of course,’ he said. He grinned. ‘Might be a little cold, though.’  
  
'No thanks,' said Zayn. And then she pushed her way through the crowd and went back home.

 

* * *

 

The next day, around noon, Harry Styles showed up at Zayn’s front door with a bouquet of flowers.  
  
Zayn stared at him without speaking. ‘Um,’ he said, flushing when she didn’t take them, let his arms fall to his sides. ‘I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Harry. Harry Styles.’  
  
He paused. She didn’t give him her name. ‘Well, um,’ he said, frowning a bit, ‘I just wanted to apologise. For last night. For waking you.’  
  
'You didn't wake me,' Zayn said, slightly mollified. She didn't open the door any further. 'Couldn't have slept if I wanted to, though, could I?'  
  
'Right,' he said, shifting on his feet. 'Right. I'm sorry. A party my first night out—' he made a slight scoffing noise '—really, not very neighbourly behaviour.'  
  
Zayn made a vague noise of assent. What was his game here?  
  
'A-and in the spirit of neighbourly behaviour,’ he said, pressing on, ‘I wanted to invite you over for dinner. Show you what I sound like when I’m not being very drunk and very rude.’ He gave her a give-me-your-knickers grin.  
  
'Eh? No,' said Zayn, right when Bisma came tumbling down the stairs shouting: 'Daddy!'  
  
It was difficult to say who was more dismayed in that moment: Bisma or Harry. Zayn had them both beat by lightyears.  
  
Harry recovered quickly. ‘You and your husband are of course both very welcome,’ he said, smoothly, while Bisma glared at his flowers with mounting suspicion.  
  
Zayn didn’t correct him on his assumption; he’d find out in due time. ‘No, thank you,’ she said firmly. And then she shut the door in his face.

 

* * *

 

These days Harry doesn’t try to talk to her, or give her bouquets. He’s rarely home, but when he is, he just goes straight into his house, Ray Bans covering his eyes, beanies covering his head.  
  
Zayn heard the girls down the street giggling over him while she was getting the mail once. When Zayn was growing up, men like Gary Barlow were considered fit. What a difference a few decades make.

 

* * *

 

'What do you  _mean_  you can’t come,’ Zayn says. Hisses, really. She’s hid in the pantry, trying her hardest not to ruin Bisma’s Christmas Eve before time.  
  
'I'm sorry, babe,' Liam whispers. 'Tell Bis I'm—not coming in today, Mr Fiking, and that really is the end of it.' He rings off.   
  
Five minutes later he texts her:  _sorrrrry babyyy, laur came out_  
  
Zayn counts her breaths up to 50, pushes her hair back, comes out into the kitchen with a big smile. Bisma is sat at the kitchen table alone, surrounded by glitter and pages of flat Disney Princesses; in Zayn’s absence, she has acquired a small green bindi and three purple beauty marks. On the table, Tiana and Jasmine are both wearing red sunglasses, telling each other ‘Cool???’; Ariel is currently being given some kind of blue tree hat.  
  
'He's not coming, huh,' says Bisma, without looking up. She doesn't even sound surprised.  
  
'Maybe later tonight,' Zayn says, brightly. 'Now explain to me — what's this Ariel's got on her head?'

 

* * *

 

After Ant died, Zayn had a rough time of it - fell in and out with men who only seemed to get worse. Hid out at Doniya’s when her latest got drunk and pushed her through a window. Nearly broke her neck climbing through the fire escape when he and his mates broke in and lit the place up. After the fireman gave her her single box of salvaged possessions, Doniya gave Zayn the number of the nearest shelter, told her to fuck off for the night, please.  
  
Zayn’d had enough of fires and men in uniform; she fucked off for quite a bit longer than that. She eventually hitched a ride south, found herself a fuckbuddy roommate and a shitty little waitressing job at an Indian eat-in, near the new power station. The entire city was getting an overhaul, brown and black faces disappearing daily for cheaper climes. The restaurant was on the wrong side of ethnic, and anyway the food was all shit; its days were clearly numbered.  
  
So were Zayn’s. Her roommate hadn’t been home in three days. His car was still parked in its regular spot; Zayn strongly suspected he was dead. This was a problem - the rent was due in a week. She got paid in two.  
  
Liam couldn’t have met her at a more opportune time.  
  
'Hullo!' said the man who turned out to be Liam, rather robustly. All the way across the room, Suraj — who was pretending he had the flu, so his mummy wouldn't know he'd been out drinking — flinched.  
  
'Hullo,' Zayn repeated, sans enthusiasm. 'What'd'ya want.'  
  
'Oh, well. What's good?' he asked, playfully. Oh, God, she thought; she hated when they joked around.  
  
'Everythin's good,' she said, shrugging. They bought half of the stuff from the shop down the road and reheated it in the back. Pretty much everything but the chicken tikka masala was shit.  
  
'Alright,' he said, slowly. 'Well. What's great?'  
  
Zayn gave him her most patient smile. ‘Everythin’.’  
  
He sat back. ‘Oh.’ He fiddled with the napkin dispenser. ‘Maybe just a ch, chicken tikka masala, then.’  
  
Zayn felt a little bit bad, so she gave him some extra naan for free. Only it turned out to not be so free, because Suraj noticed and went and told Mrs Khatri, who sadly told Zayn it would be coming out of her pay.  
  
The man came back the next day, bought a lassi for 3 quid, left Zayn her first and largest tip for 20.  
  
He came back the next day, too; Zayn hid in the back. Suraj smiled through his teeth when he said he didn’t want anything, hissed at Zayn that her gora lover was taking up too much bloody space.  
  
He was waiting near the back entrance when her shift ended, shuffling from foot to foot. She’d seen him through the window; she could’ve gone out through the other door.  
  
'What d'ya want,' she asked, when they reached each other. She knew very well.  
  
He widened his eyes. ‘I don’t want anything,’ he said, quickly. ‘You just—you dropped this the other day and I, I wanted to return it.’ He held out his hand.  
  
She looked down at his palm - one of her jade drop earrings, the ones her dad’d bought her, to celebrate her A-levels. She’d been up all night looking for it, ended up going through some old photos she’d swiped from the house, cried for hours over the stupidest photo of Saf — baring her teeth, with an orange pair of shorts on her head.  
  
Once it’d been pissing down something awful - Suraj’d almost held the door open for her before he realised it was her; then he’d let it slam closed in her face. ‘Just a joke,’ he’d said, later, when she knocked shoulders hard with him.  
  
This was probably one of the kinder things a stranger had done for her since she’d left home.   
  
'I'm sorry,' the man was saying, when she just kept staring at him, 'this probably seems awfully creepy. I'm—I'm new in town, and you just—you seemed like a—I noticed, with the, the extra bread, and I, oh God, I'm so, so sorry.'  
  
He worked at the new station, some higher level technician they had to have; they’d given him a flat so he wouldn’t have to commute during the week, and he barely got the door closed and the condom on before he was fucking her up against the wall, thrusting thick and full inside of her, breathing heavily in her ear, ‘you like that? you like that?’  
  
She was lonely, and he could hold her up easily; of course she liked it. Later, he spread her out on the bed, pushed into her slowly, carefully, looked her straight in the eye, drew her hair back and kissed her, like he didn’t think she was worthless at all; and she liked that, too.

 

* * *

 

He woke up her with the quiet sounds of his crying. ‘I’m married,’ he confessed, and Zayn thought, ah. There it is. ‘We’re—we’re so happy together. Laur and me. I don’t know why I—’  
  
Zayn said it was ok (though it wasn’t), she didn’t mind (though she did), that these things just happened sometimes (though they didn’t, not really, not to her). She said he shouldn’t feel compelled to tell his wife for her sake. She hadn’t thought they’d start, like, dating or anything; all she’d wanted was a good hard fucking.  
  
'A good hard fucking,' he repeated, staring blankly at her nipples. He was blushing; his voice was rough.  
  
'Yea,' she said, sitting up. She swung her leg over his other side, rocked onto his lap. She could feel his cock through the sheets; felt like a proper porn star. 'All I wanted was a good. hard. fucking.'  
  
Her legs were so weak, later, she barely made it to the bathroom; she didn’t make it to work at all.

 

* * *

 

Suraj told her she was fired with some glee, sobering only when he noticed his mum tearing up behind the register.  
  
'Be good, please, ok?' Mrs Khatri said, taking Zayn's hands in her own. Her eyes were big and brown and lined, nearly sunken in the fat of her face; she'd always been nice to Zayn, sometimes packing her up some of the shit leftovers in between cheques. Zayn could tell by the photos they'd framed up in the back that she'd been wealthy back home; that her marriage had been a love match; and that the restaurant was doomed now that its chef had passed away.  
  
Zayn nodded dumbly - she thought about hugging her for a minute or two…but that would’ve been stupid. She barely knew the woman. So she just collected her belongings from the back and cleared out.  
  
She did end up getting evicted: the new landlord was both physically and emotionally unavailable, choosing to communicate only through print. So - no luck on any kind of extensions. Fairly soon, Zayn was back to doing what she did best: fucking about with no backup plan. She lived out of her as-good-as-dead-if-I-get-my-hands-on-him roommate’s car, washing up in public bathrooms, taking the occasional shower at Liam’s, picking up a free meal and extra birth control pills from her mate Sandy, at the clinic. It was all well and good for the summer, but when it got colder—  
  
'Stay here,' said Liam, one night. Zayn hadn't mentioned where she was living; but she always brought her laundry over to his, and somehow he knew.  
  
'Mmmm. Nope,' said Zayn, and she laughed. That would be pretty bloody stupid. What if he got sick of her? Then what the fuck would she do? You weren't supposed to put all your eggs in one basket. Particularly when you were a broke brown girl. Particularly when the basket was a married white man.  
  
’ _Zayn_ ,’ Liam murmured, bumping their noses together. ‘C’mon. You know you want to.’  
  
Zayn had a bit of a panic attack then, locked herself in the second bathroom. Liam broke the door down hours and hours later, fucked her in the empty bath, furious at her, chest red and heaving. ‘Don’t ever— _ever_  shut me out,’ he said, twisting inside of her, slippery and uneven, till her voice hollowed out the walls around them. When he came, she felt full, she felt whole, she felt perfect.  
  
She felt disgusting. ‘Blghh,’ she said, standing only with his assistance. ‘Feels weird.’ She slapped him on the chest, lightly. ‘S’lucky I’ve not gone off-schedule. Otherwise we’d really be in trouble. Fuckin’  _beast_.’  
  
'Hm?' said Liam, distantly. 'Oh. yea.'

 

* * *

 

Someone knocks on her door, slowly and deliberately, at quarter to 1. She’s up in bed, nursing a glass of grape juice, drawing a little alien princess for Bis.  
  
The number of people she could be expecting at this hour is so far below zero, it might as well be in the negatives. Might’ve been her imagination, she thinks, when it stops. It starts back up again, erratically, three minutes later.   
  
She wraps herself in her robe, flits her hair out of her face and goes downstairs.   
  
Harry Styles is stood on her porch, very clearly high out of his mind.   
  
'Hullo,' he says, with some endurance: he somehow manages to eke out about 15 more syllables than is normally required. 'I need to. Say. Sorrything to you. I need to say sorry to you.'  
  
'Alright,' says Zayn, puzzled. She waits. Harry sways, stares at her unblinking. Doesn't say anything further.   
  
—Apparently that’s his way of apologising. ‘Euh, alright,’ she says. ‘That’s…thank you?’  
  
Harry’s smile takes up his entire face. ‘You’re so welcome,’ he says. ‘You’re so, so welcome, it’s  _beautiful_ , you’re— I can’t even believe it.’ His smile goes, impossibly, wider. ‘May I please have some water?’  
  
She gets him a glass from the tap, rolls her eyes and refills it up with water from the fridge when he gives her a mournful, pointed look. ‘Y’know, it all comes from the same place,’ she says.  
  
'So do humans,' he says, mysteriously. What? He puts his glass down all at once, stands to his feet, walks very slowly into the wall. Redirects himself into the pantry. Vomits. Comes back out with a confused expression on his face.   
  
'That's not a bathroom,' he says, as though this is news to Zayn.  
  
The next morning he’s mortified. Can’t even look at her. ‘I’m so—’ he shakes his head at himself, firms his jaw. ‘I cannot apologise enough. My behaviour towards you has been so—so—’  
  
'Don't worry about it,' Zayn says. Can't stay mad at some ickle boy pop star who cries out for his mummy in his sleep, can she.

 

* * *

 

Why don’t you ever go anywhere? Liam asked, once. It was March, in ‘02; he and his wife went to Madrid the following week.   
  
Zayn started borrowing books from their elderly neighbour, pretending she’d gotten them from the library. Took up painting and drawing again, watched the same shitty old porno until the tape wore thin. Started taking English courses by correspondance because why the fuck not, filled up the flat with Pater and Chaucer and, ugh, Shakespeare and then, because they reminded her of Ant, asked Danny to send her the little crate of comics they’d packed away after the funeral.  
  
'Won't you be too busy for those,' he asked, with the same reassuring air of disapproval.  
  
'Nah,' said Zayn. 'I've got loads of free time.'  
  
'Didn't know I'd picked myself up a bookworm,' Liam remarked, one evening, when she went easily from giving him a blowjob to reading about Bruce Wayne. He ran a hand over her hipbone; she was still sensitive - she didn't brush his hand off.  
  
'Oh, is that Batman?' he said, snuggling closer. Sometimes she looked in his face and she could tell he was counting down the hours he had left with her. 'I like him. Top lad.'  
  
He left early in the morning while she slept and came home late at night. And on the weekends he went home. Sometimes, if she slept in and went to bed too early, she’d wake up the next day without having seen him at all.   
  
One week the only sign he was still alive was a message he left her.  
  
It’s been a long week, he said. On the tape, he sounded like the wrong end of a yawn.  Ll’try to see you on Monday. Miss you, babe. ‘Bye.  
  
If she was awake when he came in, she greeted him with a smile and a plate of food; she never said no to sex, sure that the moment she did, Liam would purse his lips and say, well, it’s been fun, but—. Sometimes Liam pursed his lips anyway, rolled over and said never mind. Those were the worst nights; Zayn couldn’t sleep, could only watch him snore, touch his back and pray he wasn’t bored of her.  
  
Maybe this was what being married to him was like, she’d think; wanting without guarantee.

 

* * *

 

Harry Styles was part of some duo starting out, but he fucked over his partner — a Troy Austin, who is, apparently, not the same as the boy from the High School Musicals — so Bisma doesn’t like him,  _at_  all. She tells him this at great length over breakfast.  
  
'Bis,' Zayn says, when Harry begins to look at his cereal as if he wants it to eat him, rather than the other way around. 'That's enough, alright, love?'  
  
Bisma eats her cereal with an air of censure and longsuffering, as if she has been very greatly wronged - but can do nothing but bear it in holy silence.  
  
'I'll just—' says Harry, at the door. 'I can get you a number, for a cleaner's, if you need one?'  
  
'It's all sorted,' she says, letting herself smile a little. He's acting like a puppy who's been bad. She can't help but tease him a little: 'Be safe on the way home, though. Wouldn't want you stumbling into any pantries, causin' any more mess.'  
  
Harry goes red and starts apologising all over again. Probably she could have him begging forgiveness for his hairstyle if this keeps up. ‘It’s fine, it’s fine, I was just kiddin’,’ she says. ‘I mean, I don’t want you throwing up in my house again. But it’s fine.’  
  
He pauses. Stares up at her through his hair. ‘Your daughter doesn’t seem to like me much,’ he says, slow and abrupt. ‘Didn’t think I’d be welcome. Again.’  
  
Bisma’s a girl after her mum’s heart; she takes ages to warm up to strangers. Couldn’t even look her great-grandmother in the eye when they met for the first time. ‘She likes you just fine,’ Zayn says.

 

* * *

 

'You don't have to do that,' Liam said, one evening, in the flat. He'd just asked Zayn how her day had been - she'd smiled and said, Can't complain.  
  
'Do what?' she said, in the kitchen. 'D'ya want any more rice?'  
  
'No, Zayn, I don't want any more bloody—' she stopped short, stared at him. He was kicking her out. Liam frowned, lowered his voice. 'Would you—would you come in here. please.'  
  
She obeyed, came and sat in his lap. ‘You’re not my—my  _maid_ , Zayn,’ he said, brushing her hair back. She preferred it pulled back, but he liked it out, so. ‘You don’t have to look after me. I want you here so  _I_ can look after you.’  
  
'And. that means…' she said.  
  
'That means,' he said, 'that you don't have to walk on eggshells around me. You don't have to cook me dinner every night. We can get takeaway. Or hey, I can cook!, even - I'm a brilliant cook, you know.'   
  
'You're a decent cook,' she said, sulking a little, because she felt scolded and uncertain.  
  
Liam grinned, darted a kiss onto her cheek. ‘ _You’re_  a brilliant cook, babe,’ he said, ‘but you don’t have to cook, or, or—clean up all the time. I like a little mess, I like seeing what you’ve been working on. I like knowing that you live here. That I’m not alone.’ He leaned closer. ‘And, hey - I like having sex when  _you_ want to.’ She flinched, shyed away, into his neck.   
  
'You don't have to play a role with me, babe,' he said, lowly, stroking one thumb over her hip. 'You don't have to do anything.'  
  
She rode him right there, no condom, hoped his wife was clean. ‘Please,’ she whispered, right against his lips; he gripped her by the hips, and slowed her down, came inside her with a sigh. When he winced at the weight of her, she stood up too quickly, knocked his plate over with the edge of her hip.   
  
The curry and rice went everywhere; they were up for at least an hour afterward, grinning at each other, cleaning it up.

 

* * *

 

Harry sends Bisma a signed Troy Austin autograph. Heard you were a big fan, it says. Would love to meet you one day!  
  
Bisma carries it around the house, bright-eyed, for ages; won’t put it down to hug Liam, even. ‘This is very important, Daddy,’ she informs him, when she deigns to let him pick her up.  
  
'Is it,' Liam says, laughing. He never looks happier than when he's with his girl.  
  
Bis nods. ‘Yes, it is,’ she says. Liam shoots Zayn a fond look. ‘This means I have to apologise to Mr Styles.’  
  
Liam scrunches up his brow. ‘Mr Styles?’ he repeats. Zayn gets a funny feeling in her stomach. ‘Who’s that?’  
  
Bisma shoots him a deeply disappointed look. ‘ _Harry_  Styles, Daddy,’ she says. ‘Our next-door neighbour? We were sat at breakfast the other day and I said— well, Mummy knows, she’ll tell you.’ She wriggles a little. ‘Let me down, please. I’m going to put this up on the  _fridge_.’  
  
They watch after her skipping into the kitchen. Listen to the sounds of her humming, dragging a stool over.   
  
'Careful, Bis,' Zayn calls.  
  
'Have him over for breakfast often, then?' Liam asks, mildly.  
  
'No,' Zayn says, and then  _yes_ , later, when Liam turns her over and says, can he—? just, he’s missed her so much, please, please, he’ll be gentle, it won’t even hurt.

 

* * *

 

For fuck’s sake, don’t believe them: it _always_  hurts.

 

* * *

 

Three years after Zayn had stopped looking for a job or a new place, two years after she’d finished her degree, almost one year after starting a new one, she got pregnant. Liam lost his bloody mind.   
  
He told his wife he was taking on longer hours - new project at work, he said, on the phone, right before outlining the many reasons they couldn’t afford to fix the porch. He wouldn’t let Zayn go  _anywhere_  by herself, even got upset about her reading too long on her side. He sent away for an entirely new wardrobe, filled the flat up with toys, and nappies, and prams, a cot and three mobiles. He did something that felt less like fucking and more like making love — as if Zayn was made of something precious, and rare, and beautiful.   
  
She lost the baby. Liam lost his mind then, too.

 

* * *

 

Bisma was born early, was born blue. It was a Sunday. Liam was with his wife - Zayn had to call and wait, count her breaths all by herself on the reading room floor. He didn’t know until hours and hours later - he didn’t meet Bisma until very early Monday morning.  
  
They were planning on naming her Rachel but one of the nurses said she could’ve died. That first breath she took felt like it came directly from Zayn’s lungs. As if her loneliness had been heard, and was finally being answered.  
  
Bisma ate without opening her eyes. You don’t know me yet, said Zayn, barely breathing, but I’m your mummy, ok?  
  
Liam flew in before work the next day, wide-eyed and still out of breath when she handed Bisma to him.  
  
'She's so,' he said, swallowing, 'small.' His eyes dragged up to Zayn's. 'Is she supposed to be so small?'  
  
'Think so,' Zayn whispered. 'Careful with her—with her head.' Liam rearranged her so her neck was more firmly secured against his arm. Bisma's eyes flickered open, briefly; she made a sleepy sound of discontent, smushed her face up some more before relaxing back into sleep.  
  
'She's—,' Liam started blinking back tears. Zayn had cried enough; she just smiled, and waited for him to finish. '—she's  _beautiful_ , babe, oh my god.’  
  
Bisma hiccuped once - and then sicked up all over the arm of Liam’s suit.  
  
'Perfect,' said Liam. 'She's perfect.'

 

* * *

 

Liam threw the bloodied clothes away so she wouldn’t have to, sent most of the baby stuff back. He otherwise kept his distance. Slept in the second room for a while, said Laur was taking a break from work, had nothing but free time to think. Zayn could hear them talking on the phone for hours through the walls; laughing.   
  
Liam said he needed time; Zayn didn’t know how to say that she did, too.   
  
So she just nodded, said sure, yea, and got the fuck out of there - took the bus back home, (stayed in the back with her headphones up and plugged into nothing, so she could pretend she didn’t hear what the other passengers said), called Danny for the first time in long time. Asked him if she could stay at his.  
  
She knew he was upset she hadn’t called in a while; she knew he wouldn’t tell anyone.  
  
His flat was shit. He’d got bigger, though, put on at least a stone of new muscle. He’d a new scar over his eyebrow — ‘bloke took out a knife, went after Jaya,’ he mumbled. ‘what was I s’posed to do?’ — a purpling bruise in his abdomen, and twelve new stitches scarred into his upper thigh, bare centimetres from his cock.  
  
Close call, she said, touching it carefully.  
  
'Your mum still comes 'round, y'know,' he said, later, when they were watching the telly. It felt like there was another person in the room, and Danny was talking to them. Somehow their hands had ended up tangled together. 'Your dad, too. When he gets the chance.'  
  
Zayn nodded. She’d cried more in the past three weeks than she had in her entire life, and lucky thing, too: if she’d had the tears, she would’ve cried them then. Sometimes a girl just wants her mum.  
  
'No one blames you,' he said, and this was why she'd stopped calling. Because they always ended up here, in this same place. 'What happened that night— it was no one's fault.'  
  
Zayn nodded again. Right. ‘Course it was no one’s fault. Except for how it was hers.  
  
'Doniya feels proper guilty, y'know,' said Danny. 'Even still.' He pursed his mouth. 'Though what happened  _that_  night was completely that bloody wanker’s fault. I keep tellin’ her, but…’  
  
Zayn blinked — nudged him hard. ‘Oh, you do, huh.’  
  
Danny shrugged, went red. ‘Maybe. Dunno,’ he said. They watched the telly in silence for a bit. More news about the war: an old clip of Blair, talking about the imminence of force. An oddly upbeat advert about foot odour interrupted him.  
  
'Come back home, 'k?' said Danny, not looking at her. 'No point in bein' alone.'

 

* * *

 

The minute a big black van pulls up and dumps Harry off, Bisma gives Zayn a very serious look and says, ‘Mummy. It’s time.’  
  
Zayn nods very seriously, puts on all of their jackets and snowboots and gloves very seriously, and bursts out into startled laughter when Bisma trips outside and falls down in the snow.  
  
Harry, who’s been stood in place staring at his house for quite some time, turns. Even beneath the Ray Bans and the beanie, he looks very tired. He’s been gone since before the New Year, doing the rounds. Zayn saw him on the cover of some tab when she was at the market - coming out of some club, surrounded on all sides by cameras and fans. His mum must worry over him all the time, Zayn thinks, and she sends him a smile as she helps Bisma up.  
  
Bisma, apparently, doesn’t want to apologise anymore. ‘It’s not,’ she mumbles, as Zayn brushes her front down. ‘It’s not fun anymore.’ Zayn can tell by the way Bisma’s shying behind her legs that she’s become embarrassed.  
  
Harry seems to sense they want something to do with him; he waits patiently in his driveway, looking at them.   
  
'Hm. That makes sense,' says Zayn. 'But you know what, sunshine? Sometimes we all have to say, oh, I made a mistake…and I was wrong, and I hope you can forgive me.' Their hands find each other. 'And that's not ever fun, really. Not even for adults.'  
  
'Not even for adults?' says Bisma.  
  
'Not even for adults,' Zayn confirms. 'But I'll tell you what most adults don't have.'  
  
Bisma looks up at her. ‘What?’  
  
'They don't have  _me_  to hold their hand,’ Zayn says, smiling, and they walk over to Harry together.

 

* * *

 

When Zayn came back a fortnight later to pick up her stuff, Liam was sat in the dark of the living room. He stood up when she let herself in; they stopped short at the sight of each other.  
  
'I. I didn't know if you were coming back,' he said thickly, wiping his face. He stared at her for a long time. 'You're leaving now, aren't you.'  
  
'Just f. Just for a little while,' she fumbled. It was a Sunday; she hadn't been expecting him. She didn't know what to say.  
  
'Don't lie to me, please,' he said, softly. 'Not y— anyone but you. Please.'  
  
By and by, Zayn realised he was a little drunk. She closed the door behind herself, kept her eyes on him the whole time.   
  
The air felt weird around them; fraught. Who knew what would happen next.   
  
'I can't give you a family,' she said, quickly, as he came towards her. Her heart was racing - she realised she thought he was going to hit her. It'd been a while since Robbie - still she couldn't help thinking, he's strong, I'll have a fuck of a time getting away. 'I get that you're—you're lonely and, yea, maybe not all that happy with your wife.' Liam made a soft noise of disagreement, eyes wide and broken in his face. 'But I can't be your second wife, Liam.'   
  
And you can’t be my husband, she added silently.  
  
'I don't want you to be my second wife,' he said, tugging her close, arms enfolding her, cutting out the rest of the world. 'I just want  _you_.’  
  
He certainly wanted her to be something, she thought, later, when he fucked her in a way he’d never done before, like he was searching for something, deep inside her body. Like her presence wasn’t even required.

 

* * *

 

Liam calls her Mrs Payne sometimes. As a joke, perhaps.   
  
'Mrs Payne,' he says, one night when Bis is struggling to stay awake between them. The first night of his 'three-day conference' - code for a half-week of paid vacation. 'I've got a very important mission for you. Will you accept it?'  
  
'Well, I don't know, Mr Payne,' says Zayn, putting her book down. 'What are the terms?'  
  
'I've got a daughter about somewhere—' Bisma giggles. '—and she very much needs her rest.' Bisma starts up a protest immediately. 'Will you assist her to her bed? Apologies for the short notice but it's extremely urgent, I'm sure you'll understand.'   
  
'No, no, no, Mummy,' chants Bisma. 'I'm not tired. Please no.' She pouts. 'Please, Mummy.'   
  
Ever a mummy’s girl. Zayn feels her heart melt, sends a cautious look Liam’s way. Liam shakes his head, takes to his feet. ‘Well, Mrs Payne, I can see that you’ve been compromised,’ he says, regretfully. ‘Guess there’s nothing for it, then.’ And then he tosses Bisma over his shoulder.  
  
'No, Daddy,' Bisma laughs, 'no, ha ha, I'm not tired! Toss me up again, please.'   
  
'I love you,' Liam says, later, in their bedroom, with it written clear across his face. 'You and Bis are the best thing to ever happen to me.' He says soppy shit like that all the time; it's easy for him, probably, with all the gaps in between. The reprieves. Zayn still gets shy over it, doesn't know how to say it back correctly. Always fucks it up.  
  
Tonight is no different. She kisses him once, smiling; confides: ‘Well. I’m glad  _I’m_  not Mrs Payne.’ Liam’s face drops immediately. ‘No, no, babe, I didn’t mean like— look, you’re here.’ She presses her palm to his grey shirt, over his heart. ‘And the real Mrs Payne is sat up at home, wonderin’ where her husband’s got off to.’  
  
Liam doesn’t look much appeased; he looks hurt, and confused. ‘I don’t think of it as. Real or fake,’ he says, swallowing. ‘Doesn’t matter if— you’re still real to me. You know that, right? You and Bis — you’re very real to me. And if— _when_  I marry you, you won’t be sat up wondering where I’ve gone off to. I’ll be sat up right with you.’  
  
Zayn shakes her head; she sounds like Bisma. ‘Never mind,’ she says. ‘Forget I said anything.’  
  
They make a go of it, but Liam takes forever to get it up, and anyway she’s not really in the mood.  
  
'You like that?' he pants, breath harsh and unsteady against her neck. 'You like that?'  
  
'Oh  _god_ , yes,’ she moans, meanwhile thinking, hope we haven’t run out of Weetabix.

 

* * *

 

Danny got jumped twice coming back from his part-time job, passed her number along to her mum when she came by and recognised a forgotten pair of Zayn’s knickers. They talked for hours on the phone, and when her dad came home, he shouted at Zayn until they were both crying.  
  
Are you okay, he asked. Please tell me you’re okay.  
  
I’m fine, she said; she made up some job that required a computer: daytrading, so she could work from home.  
  
So you could work here, her dad said. If you wanted.  
  
Hmm, said Zayn, and then she asked to talk to Waliyha.

 

* * *

 

Their first protracted fight in the new house was over what to raise Bisma as. Liam left the room when she took out their mats, was pacing in the bedroom after Zayn put Bis to sleep.  
  
'I think we should let her choose,' Liam said.   
  
'Ok, well. she needs to know what to choose between,' said Zayn, shrugging. 'You can take her to church, if y' like.'  _But you don’t go_ , was unspoken.  
  
Liam flushed like he’d heard it anyway. ‘Look, Zayn, I don’t mind your—your being a Muslim,’ he said.  
  
(‘ _Mind_  my being a Muslim,’ Zayn repeated, nodding her head.)  
  
'—but my daughter's not going to walk around with some, some kind of cloth on her head, too afraid to speak her mind.'  
  
'The fuck are you  _talking_  about,’ Zayn said. Liam frowned; he didn’t like it when she cursed. ‘Y— do you really think I’m afraid to speak my mind?’ A terrible thought occurred to her. ‘Or, wait, oh, I see — s’that why you’re with me? You think you can drag me about by the ear? That I’ll—what? That I’ll be  _easier_  to deal with—’  
  
'Zayn,' Liam said, in a warning tone, because Bis had woken up and started crying.  
  
'—than your  _bloody_  Christian wife?’ Zayn was shouting now, a little. Stuff like this, men like Liam — they never told you outright. Until suddenly they did, and it felt like being stabbed in the throat. ‘What the fuck would you know about teaching her how to be a good Christian? Don’t think the Bible’s all that keen on adultery, is it.’  
  
'Oh, so your man M———d, he was into it, then? Had all those women, so I guess you Muslims don't mind.' Liam scoffed. 'Yea, Zayn - I'm sure you've got loads to teach Bisma about being a good Muslim.'  
  
Zayn went and got Bisma, locked them both in the downstairs bathroom, rocked her back to sleep even though she was getting too big for it. Cried. Thought about all the empty days she’d spent fasting alone, with Bis too young and Liam away more often than not, since she wouldn’t have sex with him; all the meals she made that never tasted quite right, without two people pressed up against her on either side; the hours she spent flipping through magazines in search of shoes she didn’t need and wouldn’t wear; the stares that Liam never noticed; the minutes she spent before bed, thinking how tomorrow, tomorrow would definitely be the day she looked up a masjid.  
  
Always managing to find time to do anything but what she should’ve been doing. Like her mum didn’t use to brag about how good she was at memorisation, such a good girl! - and so clever, too; I know she’s going places.  
  
Liam was  _right_. She was a bloody awful Muslim, a bloody awful mum, a bloody awful person. Bisma had no hope.  
  
They were older now, and the house was still fairly new; Liam didn’t break the door down this time. He just knocked and sighed.   
  
'Zayn. I'm sorry for what I said,' he said. 'Please come out so we can talk about this.'  
  
Very, very eventually, they decided: Easter and Christmas and the occasional Sunday with Liam, in a church; every day with Zayn.

 

* * *

 

Hols ends and Bis goes back to school. Zayn’s days empty considerably. She’s too lazy to drive all the way to the gym so she just does shoulder rolls for an hour or two after she comes back from the bus stop. What she really wants to do is get back to her art room, but the fumes are starting to smell awful to her. Plus she feels so bloody tired lately.  
  
'Maybe you're not getting enough sleep,' Harry suggests, when he comes over offering, of all things, carrot sticks. Some video of him doing something scandalous has leaked - he's meant to lay low for the next couple of weeks.  
  
'Ehh,' she says, crunching into a carrot. She's sleeping 10 hours a night. 'Maybe.'  
  
'Heyyy,' Harry says, frowning. 'Those are for Bisma.'  
  
Zayn eats another. ‘Bisma doesn’t like carrots,’ she says, cheekily. And then she runs for the bathroom.  
  
'Apparently neither do you,' says Harry, later, holding her hair back as she continues to retch into the bowl. What?  
  
'What?' gasps Zayn, and then she heaves.  
  
'Never mind,' Harry sighs. '—The amount of vomit we bring into each other's lives…Remarkable, truly.' Odd time to start talking like a robot, but Zayn's in no position to make a fuss.  
  
'Ugh. Ugh,' she says, hiccuping a little. She grimaces at the bile-ridden breath that rises up. Fuck. Sodding fucking fuck. 'Think I've got the flu.'  
  
Harry goes out to get her some chicken soup - Zayn watches him get mobbed at the shop on the telly. Weird bit of timing, that. Clips of him, heavylidded and grinning, mouthing something, start playing. STYLES SEX TAPE SCANDAL! says the title at the bottom of the screen, rolling on repeat.  
  
In real life, in the car park, Harry smiles, face pinched, ducks his beanie’d head under the wave of questions, tries to hide his bag.   
  
'Stocking up on condoms, Harry?' asks one particularly bold paparrazo.  
  
Harry smiles for real; smirks, really. ‘Don’t I wish.’ Cheeky.  
  
'How'd they find out you were there?' Zayn asks, later, not thinking to change the channel when she goes to the door.  
  
'Oh. who knows.' Harry's still slouching horribly; he looks like he does know. His smile doesn't dim or crack when he looks at the footage of himself mouthing something on-screen. 'Can we change the channel, please?'

 

* * *

 

The second pregnancy was a surprise, announced itself abruptly when Zayn vomited violently all over some carrots Liam’d been chopping up. Perhaps it was a good thing he’d persuaded her to give up smoking and drinking.  
  
Counting back from the first time she’d been with Liam after the miscarriage, that made her twenty weeks pregnant, at most. Her first obstetrician, a redlipped redhead with a big white smile, told her she was twenty-four.  
  
'What?' Zayn said, and she laughed. 'That's impossible.' Six months ago, Liam couldn't even look at her, never mind about getting her up the duff.  
  
'Very possible. And very true,' said the woman. She smiled faintly. 'Though I'm sure keeping track of time or partners might be…difficult for some.'  
  
Zayn came out into the waiting room crying her eyes out; Liam made a huge fuss, threatened to file a complaint. The only reason he didn’t was because Zayn said she was tired, could he please just cancel their dinner reservations and take her home.

 

* * *

 

Danny’s the godfather; of course he doesn’t know.

 

* * *

 

'I don't think you're much like Mick Jagger,' Zayn says, for lack of anything else to say. It's been an hour or more - her soup's long gone cold. She's still trying to sip it, Harry's still watching her try to sip it. His own bowl is largely untouched. Doesn't seem like he's got anywhere else he's planning to go.  
  
Harry blinks out of his distant smile. ‘No?’ He leans forward on his elbows. ‘Is that a good thing?’  
  
Zayn shrugs. ‘Dunno,’ she says, taking another long slow sip. Jagger had more range, probably. Definitely more coordination. ‘Hey, euh…whatever happened to that girl?’  
  
Harry’s smile becomes a bit more fixed, as though he’s waiting for a mic and camera to slowly rise up from behind the tap. ‘Which girl?’ he says, in a completely kind, flavourless voice. He’s good at this whole robot gig. Zayn wonders if he’s got one of those barcode things on his neck, beneath the curls.  
  
'The one that threw that shoe at you,' Zayn says, sipping. 'Is she trapped in some basement somewhere?'  
  
Harry snort-giggles. ‘No, she’s fine,’ he says. He runs one of his fingers over his bottom lip. ‘I guess? We haven’t kept in touch, really. I suppose she could’ve been basement’ed. I should check that out.’ He tilts his head, grins at Zayn. ‘Have  _you_  been checking me out?’   
  
Not the wording Zayn would have chosen, at all. ‘Just wanted to see what all the fuss was about,’ she says.  _Siiiiiiip_.  
  
'And do you?' Harry asks, grinning.   
  
From what Zayn’s picked out from recorded shows - Harry trips all over stage. He brings food out in between songs. He gleefully grows piles of knickers and pants. He throws his entire body into singing notes he only sometimes hits. He’s mediocre; he’s electric.  
  
'Ehh,' Zayn shrugs. 'Not really my kind of music.'  
  
Harry puts his chin on the counter — total Bis move (less than an hour ‘till she comes home!) — stares up at her. ‘And what is your kind of music?’  
  
He goes through her and Liam’s largest booklet later like he’s examining a foreign artefact. Touches a careful finger to the names beneath the sleeves:  _Off The Wall_ , _Never Too Much_ , _Me Against Myself_ , _It’s Time_ , _Mama’s_   _Gun_ , _Born To Do It._    
  
'Wow,' he murmurs. 'You listen to CDs.'  
  
Is that a jab about her age? Does he think she’d listen to Boyz II Men on vinyl? Maybe on cassette? Zayn raises her eyebrows at him. ‘What else would I listen to?’   
  
Harry runs a finger over his lip again. ‘No, it’s cool,’ he mumbles. ‘Just. Very cool.’ He settles the booklet on his lap, narrows his eyes up at the speakers. ‘His voice is very deep.’ He looks at her. ‘His? Their? How many boyz are there?’  
  
'Four,' Zayn says, shaking her head. 'Well. Three, now. Have you really never heard of them before?' No wonder his singing's so spotty.  
  
Harry holds up a finger, furrows his brow. ‘No, this part—the chorus sounds familiar.’ This is Bis’s favourite part, actually - when the music cuts out, she always hops up on the couch and starts mouthing the lyrics.  
  
Harry clears his throat. Zayn realises she’s started singing along; stops. ‘Oh, don’t stop, you sound good,’ he says.  
  
Zayn rolls her eyes, blushes. ‘Yea, alright,’ she says. Her choir days are long behind her.   
  
'No, really,' says Harry. 'You should—'  
  
Upstairs, Zayn’s alarm starts playing:  _Gee, it’s great, after bein’ out late…walkin’ my baby back home…_ ‘Oh,’ says Zayn. She stands, fights off the wave of dizziness. Harry clambers to his feet too. ‘I need to go.’  
  
She turns the music off, then stares at him blankly. Harry stares back.   
  
'Euhhhh,' she says. 'Thanks for the. Carrots.' Harry twists his lips wryly. 'And the soup. Soup was good.' The soup he'd bought her because she'd thrown up the carrots. The carrots she'd thrown up because she was—is pregnant. The pregnancy she doesn't know how to tell Liam about.  
  
Harry rocks back on his heels, grinning faintly. ‘And the company?’ he says. Harry always spends break at my place, said some singer Zayn’d never heard of, in some award show interview she’d had to rewatch three times because of all the screams. I don’t think he knows how to be alone!  
  
Zayn smiles, a little. ‘Company was good, too. Thank you.’  
  
Harry snuffs, grins at his boots. ‘Any time,’ he murmurs.

 

* * *

 

To celebrate a ‘massive’ promotion, Liam got her a gaudy bracelet she ended up only ever wearing around him, a new easel that broke during the move, and a request that she honestly ask him for whatever else she wanted.  
  
By this time Zayn was as large as she was ever going to get: she asked for a house. Too many eyes ‘round here, she told him. Want a quiet little place with you.   
  
Really she wanted a house because she knew, if something happened while Liam wasn’t there, he wouldn’t get there in time. A small house out in the middle of nowhere, she thought; then she’d be safe, her baby would be safe. She and Liam would be safe.  
  
Liam bought them a house with four bathrooms, six bedrooms, a gorgeous kitchen and dining area, a living room and reading room, three siderooms, a laundry in the basement, and a ‘massive’ backyard.  
  
It was 30 km from the new hospital, 22 km from the shopping centre, and 13 km away from where a little boy named Asif had been almost beaten to death. The neighbours came in single file behind the movers - looked at Zayn’s nails, bitten to a quick, looked at her maternity wear from several seasons past, and declined to stay for tea. Good thing, too; Zayn had no idea where the kettle was.  
  
Liam had to drive back home to pick up Laura for some kind of emergency that first night: one of her parents was in hospital and she wanted him there.   
  
Still Liam dragged his feet: ‘Andy lives just down the road, so call him if you need anything, okay? Don’t forget that the number’s in your contacts. And  _don’t_  forget to take your vitamins, alright, Zayn?’ Zayn nodded. Andy thought she was a slag, and maybe she was; but she’d die before she asked him for help. ‘Will you be okay?’  
  
'You worry too much,' she said, kissing his tense, thinned lips. 'Andy down road.' Kiss. 'Number in contacts.' Kiss. 'Vitamins take.' Kiss, kiss. 'Baby and Zayn  _fine_ , Liam.’ Liam smiled but he still looked worried. By now she could read him well: he was thinking about calling his wife, telling her he couldn’t make it. Zayn was convinced she knew (she had to know) and just turned the other way. But something like this would break the balance.  
  
'Wish you would let me hire someone to look after you,' he mumbled.  
  
Zayn pulled him to her — he stopped at her bump, smiled softly, met her reaching down as she reached up. Their lips touched.  
  
'I'll be  _fine_ , babe,’ she said, quietly. ‘Really.’  
  
She called her parents after he left, let them know she was ok. They thought she was dating a man closer to her age. They also thought she’d moved by herself. Over the years, they’d definitely picked up on the fact that her daytrading thing wasn’t, strictly speaking, true…but at least they didn’t think she was dating a drug dealer anymore.  
  
That night was not one for cooking: she tried to eat one of the sandwiches Liam’d bought for her, tossed it out once she realised it was ham and not turkey. Choked down the prenatal vitamins before she forgot about them.  
  
Crawling up into the enormous bed, she felt the baby kick, softly. She stopped herself from calling for Liam.   
  
'Sorry, baby,' she said. 'Daddy's not here tonight.' The baby kicked, hard; Zayn had to crawl back out of the enormous bed, take a trip to the bathroom.  
  
Washing her hands after, she just stopped and let the water run, stared at herself in the big empty bathroom for a while. With the walls tall and off-white around her, she looked swollen and washed out.  
  
Sometimes, being pregnant felt like leaving her body in a familiar place - and waking up to find it had gone somewhere else entirely.   
  
The baby kicked again. In the glass, Zayn watched her eyes wet.   
  
'Sh, sh,' she said, voice lost under the rush of water. 'I'm here, I've got you.'

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. Future scene can be found ([here](http://olavidalo.tumblr.com/post/76996704063/the-kept-woman-future-scene-all-previous)).  
> II. M——— is the name of the Prophet. Dashed it out because— I know this is just a fic but, ah, I’m not tryna be disrespectful? And Liam didn’t use the proper honorific, was in fact insulting him. Don’t think the dashing out is a common practice (as G-d is, for some), but I just didn’t want to…blaspheme myself. Way out of my zone here, sorry :/  
> III. Zayn being tired of fire and men in uniform is a ridiculously oblique reference to the summer 2001 race riots in Bradford.  
> IV. Harry forged the Troy/Louis signature he sent Bisma; he really did screw Trouis over.  
> V. I posted this last because it's the last major fic I worked on (wrote it to decompress from [get along with you](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1146903)) but also because it's somewhat cumulative: there are several inverted images from some of my other fics to be found here, if you feel like looking.  
> VI. Besides the [zayncubus](http://olavidalo.tumblr.com/post/74782431643/remember-when-some-weirdo-asked-the-amazing) 'verse (co-written with [valencing)](http://valencing.tumblr.com), that's pretty much it! Thanks for reading :)


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